Princess Marin: What if Hamlet was a Woman -- Part One
by ralph.a.gessner
Summary: How would the story of Hamlet unfold if the main character was a woman?


44

**PART ONE**

_**SAMHAIN/ALL SOULS**_

_**One**_

My name is Sir Pachet Fortin, born a prince, stolen from my homeland to be a slave, advanced by complicity in a royal deceit to squire, exalted by luck and prowess in battle to _chevalier, _of late a trusted captain in the service of King Charlemagne.

This is not my story.

The lowing of the beeves in the field blend with the echoes of the sweetly tolling angelus bells in the monastery tower announcing vespers. From long habit my right arm makes a slow sign of the cross. Though I am an anointed Christian knight, I am a pagan at heart having been tutored as a boy in the Wisdom Mysteries by one of the last and best of the Druid priestesses. I carefully pay with my lips the duties incumbent upon me by my rank and station to the cruel seven hundred and fifty year old Italian religion, but my true reverence and fealty are reserved to Divine Ways old beyond reckoning. My horse, stout Earnest, is pointed towards the massive circle of standing stones on Ramsey Tor where I will pay homage to the Goddess before arriving at Rath Wyckoff, the castle of my adopted father, newly crowned King Xander of Connaught in the western part of Ireland. On the morrow, the feast of Samhain, converted by the English Bishop Patrick to All Souls Day, Xander will wed Gallina, the widow of his brother King Marcus. I have taken a time of leave from my dread lord's campaign against the Saxons to stand at Xander's side as the ceremony is performed. France owes Connaught no tithe or obligation so my coming is a boon between brother monarchs. My mule, Rascal, trailing stubbornly on his tether, is laden with precious imperial gifts for the newly weds. Charles the Great is as skilled in statecraft as he is in war. Connaught could someday prove to be a valued ally now that the mantle of sovereignty has passed from the slipshod, drunken Marcus to stiff-necked and bellicose Xander.

I tether Earnest and Rascal to a young hazel tree in a patch of sweet clover and ascend the steep side of the tor. It has been a long journey, a ride of full fifteen score leagues from King Charles' battle camp to the sea, six score leagues aboard a hired Norman long boat from the port of Cherbourg across the channel to the Irish coast at Kinsale, and from there two score and ten leagues of dragging Rascal northwest up the barest traces of cow and game paths (the Romans built no roads in Ireland) and over the stone strewn Burren to Conmaicne-Mara where Rath Wyckoff nestles on the narrow isthmus between Gallimh Bay and southern tip of Lough Oirbsen. I anxiously climb the last hundred and fifty yards on foot.

When Frankish knights charge into combat their battle cry is _"Montjoie!"_ or "Mountain of Joy." For most it is some peak in the Christian heaven, Mount Sinai, or the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. It might have originally been Mount Osning in Saxony, site of a great earlier victory. Roland, my mentor, brother-in-law, and predecessor as captain, used to joke with me that for him it was the _mons pubis_ of every woman he ever tupped. As much as I admired and respected Roland, he was a libertine and a fool whose courage ever outstripped his commonsense. For me _Montjoie_ always meant Ramsey Tor.

At the summit I first look on the rolling green landscape not with the eyes of a former slave remembering his captivity but with those of a warlord's advisor preparing either to ensure defense or to prosecute a successful siege. The fields surrounding the castle are rough with low dry stone walls and large limestone outcroppings. The lake protects the rear of the fortress. I remember that to the left of the castle the ground along the river that runs from the lake to the sea is boggy in areas that shift with the years and seem anxious to swallow whole the unwary. The eight story, diamond shaped castle is guarded in front by a third again taller round tower. I remember my awe when I first beheld the high stone walls. It seemed huge compared to my father's chateau. Now after attacking dozens of fortresses that could fit the whole of Rath Wyckoff in less than a quarter of their inner wards I am startled by how tiny it seems. Despite its small size it has been cleverly built. From those crenelated battlements a half dozen trained archers with long bows could hold off a thousand men. Properly the castle should not be termed a _Rath_ for that term means a redoubt of formed earthen works, but even after the fortifications of stone were erected on the site of the old crannóg stronghold, the former name was carried over by both Marcus's grandsire who built it and the local people.

As it did for every early Autumn night of my youth, the calm, slate blue waters of the huge lake yield up a steadily thickening mist that advances to blanket the whole of the area, swallowing up first the low whitewashed wattle and daub thatch roofed huts of the peasants then the inwardly sloping, massive gray walls of Rath Wyckoff. Behind me the breakers of the sea pound the jagged rocks at the bottom of the nearly vertical cliffs that make a sea landing impossible. Above me kites squabble in the evening air, gliding on the stiff offshore breeze.

In the quarter hour of study I have before the light completely fades I espy a vulnerability in the fortification's plan. There is a blind spot at the side of the castle at the edge of the lake behind the round tower. A small cadre of men, possessing sufficient foreknowledge of the lay of the land, could approach the castle under the curtain of mist and with scaling hooks sidle up the wall to dispose of the tower watch. From that perch they could cover their fellows long enough to engage a ram to the massive oaken gate after bridging the moat. If I were Xander's chamberlain I would have a guard stationed in a torch lit sentry box every night before dusk. As Charles' captain I tuck the scheme away should Xander prove troublesome.

I lean back against a huge standing stone, slide to my knees, and close my eyes in supplication and gratitude. I feel something close to rapture and relief to have returned to my boyhood home after surviving nearly a decade of constant combat. But before I can form a proper orison the sharp iron point of a pike rests purposefully against the breast of my scale hauberk.

A rough but familiar voice snarls softly at me as his partner tries to peer into the eye holes of my burbuta. "Here, now. Hear, now. Think we Connaught men are all lax, daisy-chained, and loaded with barley wine what with our new king celebratin' his weddin'? Are ye out on a tain, lookin' to sweep up our kine since they all be gathered up for the move day after morrow to winter forage? Ye better think again, Yon Strange Knight. Slide them gauntlets away from yer cutlery, gentle like, or I'll give in to me urge to lean forward and skewer yer gizzard for ye."

I lift my hands slowly, but as my left glove brushes the side of the pike I seize and yank it while twisting my body sideways, pulling the burly sentinel off balance into my right fist. His chin makes solid contact with the metal plate I have riveted to my gloved knuckles. His partner draws a long sword and shuffles back a pace to gain room and safety from which to strike. I wrench the pike free of the first's hands and sweep the ash pole along the ground at ankle height. As I expected the second leaps in the air to evade my blow. When the shaft is between his legs I jerk it upward into his leather cod piece. He drops, gagging, to the ground next to his stunned cohort.

I scoop up the sword, vault to my feet, and prick the skin on the base of the stunned pikeman's shaved skull. "Beg me for my pardon, or _I'll_ give in to an urge to lean forward."

"Sure, did I not tell ye that we shoulda potted him one first," gasps the owner of the sword, his voice thick with spittle. They are both hulking men dressed neck to boot in iron studded black leather. I recognize them. In my youth they terrorized me with innumerable malicious pranks. I cannot count the scars on my body that claim their authorship.

"That's certainly what you used to do in the old days, Duncan. And you too, Dickon. The Gryphon brothers, that's what you were called, because of your large Roman noses and predatory natures. Are you known as such still? I can see your natures as yet run to bullying."

"Aye, names of that kind are given to us in sport by clever cowards but never to our faces," Dickon snaps. "If yer gonna do me, stick and be done with it. The master'll have your innards flavorin' the chard he tosses to his wild hogs within a fortnight or he loves me not as I wager he does."

"Has Xander stayed that fond of you? I wonder if I am any less cherished. He did take me as his son, and faithfully I did come all this way to see him wed."

"Jay-sus Christ! Is a husky brandybuck like yerself claimin' ta be scrawny Pachet Fortin? Pffft. Tell me another one."

"As I oft told you, Duncan," I say kicking him in the head behind his ear with my steel toed boots, "it's 'Pa-_shay_ For-_teen'_ not _'Pa_-chit _For_-tin.'"

"By Saint Brigid, 'tis the little snot in truth with a man's timbre in his voice, beef on his limbs, and spurs on his heals," Dickon realizes. His single bushy black eyebrow widens in wonderment.

"How could such a implausible thing come to pass?" Duncan asks.

"I can scarce imagine," his brother answers.

"Gentlemen, I believe we were discussing your respectfully entreating the 'little snot's' indulgence for rudely accosting him," I interrupt.

"Baw, I'd sooner die," Dickon challenges.

I flick the sword point through the cartilage of his ear. He whinnies and covers it with his thick fingers. I dip the honed edge into the heavy calluses between his knuckles. He tries to pull his hand away, but I twist the blade so that it catches on the knobby bones. "But would you sooner die _slowly?"_

Duncan tries to rise to aid his brother, so I clout him soundly with leaded end of the pike. "Wait your turn," I quip. A white crescent opens on his scalp and begins to bleed copiously.

Dickon sighs but speaks, "I'd be beggin' yer pardon, then, Sir Pa-_shay. _ I thought ye were a trespasser and thief, not a member of the Royal House of Wyckoff home for the weddin'."

"One more time, then, but include the word 'humbly.' I always want to hear it on your rough tongue. And you might want to call me 'Milord.'"

"I _humbly_ beg your pardon, _Milord."_ Even with his knuckles of his sword hand pierced Dickon has brass bollocks enough to lard the two requested words with sarcasm.

"Now you, Duncan. I know you were the more muddleheaded of the pair, so I let Dickon have the hard part of forming the required phrase."

Duncan spits bile from the back of his throat into the high grass, but when I raise the sword he swiftly chirps, "I humbly beg your pardon, Milord."

"Adequate. I forgive you both. Go forth and announce my arrival. Have the groomsman ready to see to my steed and ass."

"There will be a later, _Milord. _At that time ye best see to yer own ass."

"At your pleasure, knaves, but not until after the wedding. I would not stain Xander's wedding hall with varlet blood."

Dickon considers this. "Agreed. Will ye return our gear?"

I hold the pike and sword out to them. They both leap upon me to clap my back and give me fond embrace. For all of their harrying of my youth, we were also close companions and fellow squires. I take off my Corinthian helm and kiss their bloody cheeks which are shaved in the Roman fashion.

"Look, Pachet's _bearded._ Doesn't it make his mouth look just like a cunt!" Dickon chortles while plucking out a longer strand from the side of my chin.

"I'd hate to have sight of the women you've been tupping," I retort.

"Tell us how ye came to carry captain's brass on your gorgets and yer adventures among the Franks," Duncan prompts.

"Later; leave me to pray here a while in this Holy Place. I'll give you many a rousing tale over a pint and a cold joint in days to come."

"So ye still hold true to the Old Ways? You _are _the same Pachet, spurning the Virgin and the True Faith to practice pagan rituals to long dead gods."

_"Goddess,"_ I correct.

"Whatever pleases ye, Milord. Be safe and call her Mother Mary or Saint Brigid round the clergy here 'bouts. Things's changed since you were here last. They likes ta burn what they can't convert. Also mark ye, be ye cautious this one night when the way to the Otherworld lays open, Sir Pagan. The tower watch has reported that a specter has been sighted diverse times this last week stalking these stones just before midnight dressed in the war garb of the late Connaught. The new king laughs at such an account, but cannot find any men other than me and me wee little brother who would consent to a posting here on pain of pillory. We were sent hither to investigate the allegation. If it is the late king, he may more quickly recognize ye than we did. Marcus snatched yerself up to serve him as dogbody once; he might have reason to do so again in his new kingdom."

"Let him come; he will not find a frightened boy of ten but a ready foe willing to pay him his due for what service he did my father. Tell the watch that I am here to accost any _pucca_ or Jack O'Lantern with his candle in a carved turnip and will report to them if skullduggery is at hand."

"Fair enough," Duncan says, "We go to attend the prenuptial revels; s'truth we were loathe to miss them for this fanciful mission. Good to see ye, Pachet. I look forward to hearing of yer war stories and how ye attained yer rank."

The pair of rogues ramble down the hill at breakneck speed, cursing me for their wounds. I return to kneeling. Along with my litany of thanksgiving I have an entreaty to make that I have saved in my heart for a long time. I am not usually a praying man, leaving it to the priests of either faith, but on this sacred mount and on this night I have the hope that Someone might be listening.

_**Two**_

I am ten, short and thin of frame. My long black hair is braided in the latest fashion in a single line down my back; the linen cloth knotted about the end is all I have on. I scream and dash back into the surging surf. The chilly water feels wonderful in the scorching summer sun. My father, Condé Fortin, vassal king of Brittany for High-King Pepin, is an imposing heavily muscled man of thirty-five. He smiles at my play from his palanquin further up the beach. His rough men-at-arms chuckle to each other and look jealous of my freedom. My two brothers hang back from the foamy crests, fearful of being pulled beneath the charging swells. The youngest, Louis, is openly weeping and wiggling his chubby tiny arms in terror. He had fallen over so his body is coated with sticky mud. Michel, the middle one, grimly strides forward as the breakers recede but nervously backpedals when the whitecaps advance.

I pity my mother who could not make the trip to the sea from our manor in Rennes as she is nursing our just born sister, Eleanor. It is sweltering in Rennes, and the stench from the slops tossed in the streets is stifling. I remember not wanting to breathe the gritty dust containing dried dung and human excrement swirling in the hot summer wind, clouding the narrow streets between the two and three story wooden buildings. Our estate is outside the city proper so the winds across the fields of grain sweep away the worst of it, but I am so much more contented to be here in the open air, gamboling in the salty tide.

Father motions to his sergeant to help him off with his armor. Beneath the heavy mail and plate my father's skin is puckered and white making the coal black hair on his chest and around his huge looking sex stand out all the more. He strides down the white sand and tenderly scoops up little Louis. Louis grabs the curly tufts of father's beard and buries his face in the massive shoulder. Father coos and jounces the babe gently until the little one's bawling subsides. Father walks over and takes Michel's hand and leads him slowly forward into the onrushing water. A tall wave washes over the trio. Father kneels, and Michel and Louis cry with delight as the surge lifts and carries them backwards.

My once complete joy is subsumed by waves of resentment for my brother's closeness to Father. I know I am too old for such comforting. I'm proud of my separateness, my early maturity, but within me there is a longing for the kindness afforded by childhood. I square my thin shoulders and wade a little deeper.

"Pachet! Come back here with us!" Father calls. Michel reaches out his hand. I dash to join the chain when a sudden swell takes my feet from beneath me. I'm tugged under the salty water. My fingers claw at the silt in the futile effort to keep from being sucked further out. I am calm and focused, my small limbs beat against the waves. Suddenly there is no bottom, no light from the sky, just blue salt water all around me and the feeling of being irrevocably _caught_ by a force that knows only the total surrender of its victims. Bubbles from my last breath tickle my eyelashes and brows.

There is a long moment of peaceful cerulean silence.

Then I am standing in a huge stone cavern. I see a bearded man who looks very much like my father only taller standing next to a small, pretty, stern looking woman. They seem to be arguing about something important. There are two other people there, wrestling in a corner. One is a lady with a halo around her red hair and snowy wings coming from the back of her flowing white gown. She has her arms around the neck of the other, an unearthly beautiful maiden in a deep blue cloak who is moaning and punching the first in the kidneys. I can't see them very clearly as they are engulfed in ever shifting sparks. The bearded man doesn't notice that all his shouting is only pushing the small woman away. There is something wonderful, an independent yet vulnerable quality about her that I find very compelling. I drift beside the bearded man. "Remember," I whisper, "Remember being small and helpless. See it her way," I tell him and kiss a scar on his cheek.

Suddenly the vision ends, and there is a sharp pain surrounding my elbow as my father's strong hand tears my body from the water's grasp. Father drags my face above the surface of the waves and then onto the beach. He pounds my back so hard it cracks a rib. I struggle to find the air to protest that I have done nothing to deserve a beating. Snot and water squirt out my nose, and I vomit up what feels like a full brackish quart. I look up and see Louis crying again, this time in the sergeant's arms. Without speaking Michel takes him from the soldier and leads him over to me. They both hug me tightly, and Father envelopes the three of us; their arms are very warm on my chilled skin.

I breathe as deeply as I can and feel a sudden sickening sense of danger even while I am surrounded by my family's loving arms. I struggle to look in the direction of my anxiety.

Without warning from further up the beach forty or fifty foreign men rush at us at full charge brandishing swords and lances. Father looks to his palanquin when his gear is stacked on the cushions. He grabs us up and makes for the wooden litter. Father's tiny retinue of bodyguards resolutely fans out around us. A smaller second enemy force runs from the other side of the bluffs blocking our way. Their weapons are already wet with blood. I understand somehow that the squads of men posted on the escarpment are no more. One of later bunch hacks a emerald from the lacquered wood of the palanquin, holds it up to his fellows, and babbles in his slurry language. The men of our escort are badly outnumbered, but they do not yield or ask for quarter. The hushed rhythm of the rolling surf is broken by grunts, cries of pain, and the ring of iron meeting iron. Father, heedless of being naked and unarmed, pushes us away towards the water, and rushes the leader, a short knight with lizard wings on his helmet.

I expect the knight will gallantly stand away until Father can don his iron carapace and take up his broad sword, but the knight slashes at Father with his claymore, opening his chest to the bone. Father surprises his attacker by not retreating after this grave wounding. He continues forward grabbing the wildly swinging arm by the elbow as he had done mine. Father shoved his bare left knee into the knight's breast plate and hooks his naked right ankle into the knight's sharp heel spur, flipping the armed man to the packed sand. The man's gloved hand takes hold of Father's unprotected neck and tries to find purchase on the wet, exposed flesh. He slices clumsily at Father's spine with the edge of his sword. Father prizes the lizard wing helmet from the man's head and punches the invader in the face. He shoves the sharp wings down into the man's upper arm causing him to drop the sword. Then he holds the helm over the knight's face for the death blow. Their eyes met, Father's dark with anger, the knight's light with fear.

A short war lance thrown by one of the knight's men pierces Father's shoulder. Stunned, he drops the helmet and looks up to see that his men are all murdered, and we three sons held hostage by the surviving assailants. The knight shoves Father's bleeding body from his chest and struggles to his feet. He pulls a serrated dagger from a sheath on his belt, yanks Father's blanched face upwards by his dark hair, and severs the wildly pulsing vein beneath Father's jaw. Father reaches out for me as his face falls into the white sand which soaks up the red coursing life's blood. The knight takes his sword and cuts off father's head and takes up the woven gold torque from the stump of father's neck. He holds his prize in the air and laughs in his deep brogue.

Like rats after fine cakes the attackers fall upon the ornately decorated palanquin reducing the beautiful thing to splinters. They use their daggers to strip the jewels from my father's armor and wrestle for his fine Damascus-etched sword. They throw little Louis on the rocks and herd Michel and I to their war coracles a few miles down the beach.

We are lashed to a piling for a long day while they raid the villages of Landéuennec and Brest and then tossed in the smelly bottoms of the hide covered wooden frame craft with the other captured Franks and the raider's booty of livestock. On the terrible journey across the roiling ocean Michel cannot be made to eat the slops they give us. He takes ill and perishes before we reach the Cornish coast. His body is heaved into the jumbled waves covering the depths of the channel. I long to join him, but I have a task I must perform first. I make no sound even when they cut off my braid and whip me with it for sport.

The enemy take their rest at a castle built on a rocky spit of land on the northern tip of Cornwall for a day or so before continuing on to Ireland, staying close to the land as they circle to the west to their destination at Gallimh. As the son of a sovereign I am forced to attend to the lizard helmeted knight who I learn is their King Marcus. My first chore is polishing the blood of my father from his armor.

I open my eyes and look up the stars wheeling over Ramsey Tor. Bright Orion continues to hunt the Great Bear across the heavens. Inverted Cassiopeia forms a letter I hold precious. The crescent moon hooks into a lone smudge of a cloud.

Yellow smoldering torches on the battlements of Rath Wyckoff shine from a distance of half a league. I observe five men trying to keep warm while they keep their patrol on the stone parapet. They take staggered respites to bask their shaking fingers at the peat burning braziers set up on the inside curve of the round tower. I watch and admire their ordered discipline and suspect Xander's mind in the patterns of their movements; Marcus was skilled at leading wild raids but could not have created such regimentation. At no time is any approach to the castle unguarded. I wonder why there are piles of lumber for the building of siege balconies stacked about the ramparts. No army is within a week's march of Wyckoff. Gouts of murky smoke plume straight up from the scattered chimneys. The standards hang limply as there is not a breath of breeze. All else below and between us is a cold sea of mist.

My beard is wet with fog and tears. I am long used to the cold and pay it no heed. My benders do ache from the prolonged contact with the stony ground. I have offered my heartfelt thanks to my Goddess for Her granting me a safe journey. As usual She makes no reply that She bids me be welcome for Her gifts. The ten enormous damp stones around me bring to my mind the illusion that I rest in Her Palms. There are eight thinner posts in a semi-circle and two thick ones set close together with a cap stone crossing them. My teacher, Erindella, told me that this temple was erected by her people over three thousand years ago to honor the Mother-of-Us-All.

The bells toll once again, signaling Matins. From the monastery I hear the chanted prayers of the monks. The pretty voices of the young novices mingle well with the deeper burr of their elders. It is full midnight and the reported haunt has not shown. I pull myself to my feet and stretch my cramped leg muscles. It must have been the moon casting shadows amongst the stones that was mistaken for the dead king. Perhaps under Marcus's reign the watchmen never paid attention to the tor while standing guard.

Down the hill Earnest whinnies and stomps his hooves while skittish Rascal brays wildly in the darkness. I whirl, drawing both of my long dirks and holding them before me. I discern an armored figure climbing the tor, and he will find me ready. I listen as the sound of his heavy tread comes closer.

I am not in slightest startled by the sight of the lizard winged helmet or the whorled gold cross on the breast plate of the armor. I know that suit as well as I know how hard it was to scrape the verdigris from the studs holding the greaves in place. It is no difficult trick to filch and wear a deadman's gear. If some fool wishes to play impostor I am eager to offer him the wrath I have long owed the king who wore those accouterments. I am now a knight and can requite the old debt. This time the Fortin is not naked and unarmed. I pay no mind that the mist seems to rise with him to blanket us from the eyes of those on the tower.

The figure circles the temple warily but does not draw his blade. He pauses before me, places his gauntlet over his visor, and raises the beaver up to reveal his wasted face. It is Marcus, dead Connaught, much older and haggard by years of drink but sporting the same smirking countenance as he did the hour I last saw him.

His laughing eyes recognize me.

"Yes, it is I, Sir Pachet Fortin, your former slave, returned a knight. What game do you play feigning your own demise? Your wife thinking herself a widow is to be remarried on the morrow. Have you the gall to let that occur?"

"Hymmm, well, Sir Fortin, my sullen pet Pachet, you let my daughter, whom you loved greatly at the time, go off to wed Duke Halbert of Cornwall did you not? What gall did that take?" the lilting voice of my former master taunts.

"I had no choice. I had no right to her. I was a captive in a foreign place and owned no land or kine. I lacked even my spurs, and she was a princess royal."

Marcus licks his pale lips as he always did on those occasions when he could not have a drink and sighs, "You should have stolen her as I stole you. It was probably within your power even at the time. Marin is a small woman. It is what _I _would have done."

"I would not have a wife by force. Besides, she _wanted _to go to Cornwall. She told me that it was her true desire."

"Still so filled with bitterness? Better to be filled with bitters. Speaking of which you don't have anything by way of potables about yourself, do you?"

I shake my head in negative.

"Oh, well. I probably could not sip them anyway. You know full well that what Marin wanted was to give herself to the knight of her heart, her escort, Sir Stepen, nephew of Halbert, but she knew her duty lay with my match to Cornwall. It was promised in the alliance that made him my vassal long before she was born. My Marin was always a maid that knew her duty and followed it to the letter."

I look up at him, "Why do you not draw your long battle sword and the saw-blade dagger that slew my father? I only have my dirks and my anger; it may be a fair fight."

"Do not be so silly, Dear Boy. Your barbarian father bested me barehanded and naked. You, now far larger in brawn than he and more battle hardened, would pin me to the turf in half the time it takes to speak the _pater nostra._ Moreover, I am already quite dead. Or have you not noticed that you have grown taller than I ever was?" He points to the open air beneath his iron shod feet. He is floating in the air. "All you can do now is stir up the maggots, and Lord knows they could probably use it."

"Then why are you here, Dead King? If it is to ask my forgiveness you have wasted your trip from the Otherworld. I gave it to you long ago."

"Kings do not ask pardon of slaves or knights, particularly for deeds of war or plunder. I would speak to my daughter once more before quitting this _mundi lacrimea._ Might I get you to perform a small final chore for me and deliver a message? You were always such an able, useful lad. Would you ask her to come see me here tomorrow at midnight?"

I like to think myself a brave soldier who's courage has been tested time and again by enemy rage and edged weapons of all shapes, but this request fills me with anxious dread.

"So Marin has also returned?" I can scarce breathe. I greatly doubted that she would attend her mother's second nuptials. I imagined her to be too busy in the production and care of Cornish heirs. The back of my nose aches as if I had been stuck.

"Foolish boy, she returned eleven years ago."

_"What?" _ I cannot recall ever being so completely astonished in my life.

"Aye, on the voyage to Cornwall she was seduced, or more likely raped, by Stepen who promised to clear the way with Halbert for her to marry him. What she did not know was that Stepen was already three years married to Lady Winifred. Stepen told Halbert that my Marin was the initiator of the seduction and betrayal. By his act he removed the possibility of his beloved uncle being joined by God and the Lord Jesus with a likely treacherous and faithless wife. So my eldest daughter was sent back home covered with rank humiliation and shame a scant fortnight after she left. Halbert could not wait for my younger daughter Sinéad to mature and took another as his bride, some wench from the duchy of Yorkshire, I believe. I had to pay sixty bondmaids and equal value in cattle, sheep, and hogs to settle the affront and keep the peace and treaty intact. Marin has lived in my castle and has all but run my kingdom for a solid decade while I directed myself to other pursuits."

"Drinking and whoring."

"No, just drinking. I was never all that fond of tupping. Such a messy business."

"Why should I do as you ask? How do you know you won't seize her and drag her off to your Christian Hell?"

"Because I know she desires greatly to speak with me. She has been calling my name from her window facing the lake since my demise. I cannot venture within the sacred circle in which you stand, so she will be safe there if I did wish to harm her; I assure you I wish it not. Let us not argue further as it is pointless and my time is short. I know you, Sir Fortin. You will dutifully give her my message and leave it up to her to decide whether to see me or no."

"Will I?"

"Yes, Pachet, you will."

"Why bring me into this? Why do you not go to her in the castle?"

"It was once my domain; I know there are very few walls that do not hide ears. Also, it is no longer mine and so do not wish to enter it again."

"Why not tell me all of what you need say to her?"

"It would not be as easily taken from your tongue, and what I would impart is none of your affair. It is me she longs to see, my voice she needs to hear. Give up this argument, friend Pachet, it must be as I request."

"I like it not."

"You were once a slave; you must be used to your portion in life."

"My affair or no, I will come with her," I warn.

"She might allow it. She was fond of you and mentioned a single time years ago that she missed you a little. I cannot imagine why. For all your utility you were tediously grim."

I growl, lunge for him, and shove my dirks down into his chest. They pierce the metal of his breast plate and are too easily buried down to their curved cross pieces. Then I stagger backwards, amazed at what I have done. Ever, even in the hot thick of battle, I have always been completely in control of my emotions. Not once before have I been taken by the warpspasm of bloodlust. I struggle to conceal how completely shaken I feel.

Marcus looks at the twin black leather wrapped hilts and grins, "Well done. I am lucky to be beyond physical pain." He slides the dirks out and drops them to the turf. I avert my eyes from the open holes. Things best not seen by living eyes move in them.

Marcus smiles, "Until tomorrow, then? Please avoid informing anyone else, even your adoptive father, King Xander. Marin would not have it."

"Agreed," I promise. "I will perform this office exactly as you have requested."

"Good. You might not know this, Pachet, but the ancient Romans believed that a laceration made by a sword could be cured by rust from it. The Christian brothers behind the monastery walls still drill this into their students of medicine."

"I have heard of that supposed spelative. Erindella, your sister and my duridic teacher, used to laugh at such silly remedies as she knew that rust in a cut would more likely lead to the clenched jaw illness for which there is no earthy antidote. Why do you mention it?"

"Maybe the intervening years will have caused some tarnish to Stepen. He is also due to arrive at the wedding with his uncle. Seeing him older and not the dashing cavalier may heal the deep, sure wound to Marin's heart which has defied all healing. For though he did cause her much grief, on many occasions she avowed she loved him still."

"After all this time? How could a one-sided love linger so?"

"It happens sometimes with princesses and even with certain knights."

"Then maybe there will be enough of tarnishing to heal all that suffer."

"It is something for which to hope. Take that thought, then, as payment for performing my errand. In spite of what I said about sovereign rights I do ask your pardon for my callow cruelty toward you just now."

"Thank you, King."

"Until tomorrow's eve, Knight."

The ghost steps into the mists and fades from my sight.

_**Three**_

The under steward of the castle, a wild looking young man with a mass of uncombed strawberry blond curls hanging in his bright blue eyes, waits for me in the Poll-na-morrough or "murdering hole" which is a short, narrow stone entrance hall just behind the huge main door that potential marauders would have to funnel through while arrows, javelins, and stones are hurled upon them from tapering apertures in the vaulted ceiling.

"Ye be Prince Fortin, then, Milord," he asks taking the reins of steed and pack animal from my hand.

"_Ouais,_ I am, though I am not sure if I am still entitled to be called 'prince.' In my own country I am only a vicomte as uncle of the youthful comte. By what name are you called?"

"Me mother saddled me with 'Periwinkle' 'cause o' me eyes, Good Sir. I'd be much grateful to yerself if ye could hold it to 'Perry.' The Gryphons bade me tarry here for yer arrival. I have a groom waiting to see to yer beasts and an armorer prepared to polish yer gear for the festivities." He leads me into a wide courtyard before continuing, "They's a cold buffet and wench in the wardroom there. We're a tare full up with other high born guests so we ain't none better to offer ye. After the wench's done with the horizontal duties she'll launder your trappin's."

"I would be grateful for the aid of the groom if you will vouch that he is gentle and thorough with those in his care, but you may send the other two to their rest."

"Milord, will ye be attendin' the king's weddin' in a road slathered cuirass? I heard tales that Franks be a uncouth bunch, but I never give such bigoted rumors credence."

"Actually, some of my fellow countrymen can be a bit rough, I admit. It is just that I would rather polish my gear myself."

"Why would that be, Milord, if'n ye pardon me asking? S'truth I'd not seen such a strange rig before, but I'm sure we can accommodate you."

"I was for ten years impressed dogbody to King Marcus. He was a very meticulous man when it came to his raiment and trained me to be so with the care of his things. The experience has made me as fastidious with my own. I would have no other impelled to care for mine and could never abide any negligence. By this I mean no slight to the talents of the palace armorer."

"I understand, Milord, but what o' the sup and tup?"

"I had field rations in the saddle just before Vespers and do not now hunger. I would have you fetch a flagon of cool lake water along with the oils, soaps, and polishes for my armor. As for the ministrations of the woman, I think it inappropriate before the wedding service." I have found from long experience that to pretend a misguided devoteness in the area of carnal activities waylays any suspicions that one is a pagan. I do not wish to explain that I have held desire for only one woman in my life. This night I am one again beneath the same roof as she; that is satisfaction enough.

"Spoken like a good Christian Knight! We have not seen the like in many a day. If you don't mind a bit o' gossip, Milord, the earl Stepen, whilst traveling _with his wife, _ordered not one but _two _pliable serving girls sent to his chambers, ones that wouldn't mind a bit o' rough treatment if ye catch me drift. Stepen's spouse, the lady Winifred was shuttled off to share the bed chambers o' princesses Marin and Sinéad. Will you want the laundering at least?"

"I have a spare aketon in my pack as well as a festive silk surcoat rolled in that doeskin behind my saddle. There is no need to trouble the wench tonight; she can see to the washing of the ones I have on after the wedding. There are gifts for the groom and bride in the panniers on the ass. Please see that they are conveyed to a place of safekeeping."

While I unload my personal truck from Earnest, Perry opens the pack baskets on Rascal. He unwraps a set of jeweled golden dinner plates from the top of the pile and gives a low whistle. He scrounges around through the other stuff and then dashes around to inspect the goods in the one on the other side. "Milord, there's finery enough here to purchase the construction o' this whole castle. Are ye that fierce a warrior or enough o' a complete daftling fool to traipse through all o' armed Normandy and Munster with this much precious loot?"

"I cannot deny that I have been called 'fool' over much in my service to both Marcus and Charles. I would like to think I am a capable man in a fight, however, truth to tell, I wear the fleur-de-lis of sweet France, and the near emperor of all mainland Europe would have swift word if I was accosted in lands of the North West Franks. As to your southern countrymen, they too, respect my dread lord's might. The Suzerain of Meath, Donnchad Midi, was given an equal measure of beaten trinkets to ensure no brigands waylaid me on my journey. Then again, I am not always the most practical of men. Charles offered to have a squad of troopers for my retinue and I refused. If you ask me that lot is all rubbish. The flatware is too gaudy to eat from and looks silly on display. It is impossible to spend unless it is first melted down and that would destroy years of the labor of fine craftsmen."

"I take your meanin', Milord, though it has been me experience the lack o' utility makes it all the more valuable to some."

Perry hands over Earnest and Rascal to the groom who appears trustworthy and leads me into the wardroom. A high breasted, long limbed, sloe eyed woman reclines on a low, padded leather couch. She wears thin muslin about her form. My cheeks are hot, and I avert my eyes.

"Verna, be off to the scullery with ye, the knight her won't be needin' ta sample yer charms and his cleanin'll keep."

She twists her painted lips into a pouty frown, "But it's a cold night, Perry. Could he and I not just lie together for the comfort," she purrs.

Perry looks to me questioningly, and I shake my head. "I'll be working on my armor until close to dawn and would not be much good for warmth anyway."

"He's not the blessed Saint Jerome, Lass. Scoot or on the morrow night I'll assign ye to Earl Stepen." At this she quickly wraps a bleached wool cloak about her shoulders and darts between us to the kitchen building.

Perry bows deeply, "I'll take my leave to stash the glitterin' hoard and to inform the man with the water and a cleanin' kit, Milord. It's been and will be a real joy to serve yerself. I'll see ye in the morn with yer breakfast." He departs.

I struggle out of my hauberk and aketon and lave my body using the lead basin and soap from my pack. The mutton smells tempting so I gnaw a bit with some barley bread. Wine makes me sleepy, and I have too much to do before I may rest, so I leave it be.

An older, balding man arrives with a large earthen pitcher of lake water and an armor kit in a wooden box. Greedily I swallow several cupfuls. It tastes differently than any I have ever sampled, soft with an after tang of moss. I have oft missed the flavor of Lough Oirbsen when sorely thirsty these last ten years. The servant lingers nervously, and I look at him sharply.

"My name is Metal Pete, Milord. Might I watch ye in yer cleanin'? I was the man what's replaced them boys who came after yerself when ye left me King Marcus' service. He did oft praise yerself and ill compared me to yer skill though I was thought to be best to be had. I would fain see a master at his labors. And I wouldn't mind learnin' somethin' about such odd gear."

"That would be fine. After so long on the road I would not mind some company. Perhaps we can talk of the late king, the new king, and the court. I have been long away and need be informed as to the changes time has wrought."

I sit on the leather couch and pull my long sleeved hauberk into my lap. Using oil mixed with fine grit I polish each tiny medallion of my armor using a linen rag wrapped around a twig. "This is armor made of scales like a fish. All the officers in Charles' corps wear a similar style though their scales are much, much larger and overlap from the top, giving them the appearance of inverted pine cones. However, only my dear, departed brother-in-law Roland and I owned such an armored shirt as this. They were created by a Greek master metalsmith who went by the presumptuous name of Vulkan. He made them from a rock that fell from the heavens in east Brittany. With this metal of the stars he mixed other rare earths, pig iron, and a form of coal in a heated oven. The resulting alloy was so strong that he could fashion these tiny eight sided coins that are thin enough to be light and comfortable in wearing yet inconceivably strong and so far impervious to penetration. There are miniature slides on the back holding them together that make the shirt flexible for attacking movement, yet when struck, the edges join tightly at the spot to protect the wearer from harm. The star metal gives the suit the iridescent, faintly bluish milky rainbow color. It seems to alter its shade during the day due to varying strength of the light. The smith also made us helms and shields in the shapes of his ancient Spartan countrymen. There was enough product from Vulkan's forge to create one great battle sword which went to my captain and kin, Roland. My brother-in-law passed it to me as he lie dying following the ambush at Roncevalles. The scraps Vulcan fashioned into caps and spurs for our boots and plates to protect our knees and the backs of our hands and knuckles. There is some of the metal in my dirks but not as much as in everything else."

"They are all very beautiful, Milord."

"Thank you. Now, the trick that took me years to discover, Friend Pete, is to concentrate your attention wholly on the tiny spot on which you are working until it gleams. When I work I focus on only half a scale at a time. When I was Marcus' dogbody I cleaned exactly the same area of his plate armor to perfection before moving on. Never work a section larger than the width of your little finger. If you would try the method you may see to my helm."

He takes the muddy emulsion and applies it to my burbuta. I'm pleased to see that he has listened to my tutoring and starts by making tiny, careful circles on the nose piece.

"Good work, Pete. So tell me of how my former master passed and news of his royal kindred."

"Ye don't mind if I take a small sip o' elixir to hold back the night's chill, do ye, Milord?"

I indicate that I do not so mind or want a share of his libation. It suddenly becomes apparent to me that he has already insulated himself fairly well from the effects of the cool night. He leans his head back and pours a hearty spill of sharp smelling liquid into his gap toothed mouth. He wipes his smacking lips and begins, "Ahhhh, now that's the stuff! Late Connaught was ever constant as he must have been in your day, Milord. Himself would rise, break his fast with a toasted hunk o' spelt bread with salt butter and a big mug o' mead, fish the late mornin' away in his personal coracle and then retire to his private walled garden to spend the afternoon listenin' to bards or chewin' over old deeds while drinkin' sizable draughts o' the _Visce Beatha,_ the 'Waters o' Life' or 'whiskey' in common tongue." Pete holds up his flask and smiles. "Marvelous stuff, this. After a few year I became more'n just the regal dogbody, e'en lackin' in the armor furbishin' department as I was; I was his favorite and boon-chum. Marcus had a bigger thirst than meself and would usually . . . take a nap after consuming several quarts or more and doze peacefully 'till the late supper hour. He would dine lightly on fish or chicken and soda bread before climbing the twice twenty-one stairs to his chambers in the keep. Towards the end he was more and more likely to be carried on the latter trip; I know this and the number o' steps as I was the one that done the carryin'. Also it was evident to all that his manly flesh took on a decidedly jaundice hue, though none thought anythin' o' it. One day scarce two month's hence, the king was found cold and beyond rousing. If Saint Paddy himself had not driven all serpents from this emerald isle I would suspect that my liege was bitten by a viper; he had all the effects o' such. It musta just been his time, and great Saint Peter called my lord and friend to the kingdom above before his full allotted time o' four score and ten.

"The Collected Tribes voted Xander to be liege lord o'er Connaught. He then announced that he would engage in marital congress with the widow queen. The treble blows fell hard on Good Princess Marin as she'd been her father's able regent the last nine year or more. But with the Norse aggression along these coasts the Tribes felt that a male monarch would better see safe the common folk. Marin cut her beautiful thick, curly hair in mourning and has taken to wearing sack. I would not care to relate to Milord her sad story on how she came so soon back from Cornwall. I'm sure they's plenty anxious to pour it into yer ear. If I were yerself I would believe little o' it when that happens, Milord."

"I have already been informed, Rightly-Regardful Pete."

"I would wonder how, Milord; Young Periwinkle be not a tattlebox and the Gryphons would ne'er think to speak o' it. Wargames, fisticuffs, and harlotry is all that lot knows."

"I was briefed by another, very confidential source which - I am happy to assure you - explained the circumstances in the princess' favor."

"So the rumblin' o' the vast network o' Emperor Charles' spies is true, Milord?"

I smile to myself; in reality the only thing that is widespread is the _belief_ of such an organization. Supposed omniscience is almost as beneficial and considerably less costly to the imperial treasury. "I cannot answer such a question even to you, Trusty Pete. Speak to me of Gallina. Is the once and soon to be queen still so fair that the sun is shamed in his courses?"

"Beg pardon, ye be soundin' heathenish, Milord. You meant 'its courses' surely."

"_Oui, _yes, Pete. I must have listen to over much classical poetry. My thanks for minding my tongue."

"My pleasure, Milord, trust that I'll keep it just between us girls. Now to the subject o' the lovely queen o' Connaught. Herself is as pleasing to the eye and slim o' form as either o' her royal daughters. Her face has yet to be marked with a line. If ye'll pardon the cheek o' a common knave, the queenly bosom sags a slight amount, but her garments usually mask this singular flaw. There are them that prattles she has not allowed eno' wear in her weeds, but there are more that knows that this matrimony is far o'er long in comin', and I's wager me heart's blood that e'en the late Connaught would be among the latter bunch."

"Again, but this time it is as my adoptive father's son that I know exactly to what you refer, and I am happy to include myself in that second number."

"I knew ye would be, Milord."

I'm pleasantly surprised that despite his steady holding forth and frequent imbibing, Pete has kept true to my technique, and my helmet is nearly finished just as I would have done the task. I have completed polishing my hauberk and spot plate so we work together on my round shield starting from opposite sides. It is the final chore as my inherited great sword has been sheltered in its tight leather scabbard. Even if this were not the case I can see little cause to draw it out during a wedding. Still, just to be sure, I do slide it forth to check its shine.

"What of the other two children, Marin's siblings?" I inquire.

"On the mornin' o' his death the late Connaught himself admitted to me that o' his life entire his great sorrow and regret was his prolonged failure to bring himself to reconcile with his only son, Sean, who chose to be humble vassal to the Heavenly Prince 'stead o' his earthly father's successor and scion. The lad, now priest, is just as vexed o'er this, but refuses to see old Pete who might easily, by this intelligence, lessen the trouble in his heart. Mayhap, yerself can convince the proud but aggrieved lad to spare an aged wastrel a brief moment, Milord?"

"I would be glad to be your emissary in this task, Noble-Hearted Pete. Tell me now about the always sunny and cheerful youngest."

"Little Sinéad was also drawn to the clergy by her beloved brother's willful example and is but less than a half year short o' the time required before she may make her vows as nun. From all reports the prioress o' Tintagel Cloister beat with brow and cudgel all merriment from her youthful heart. She is now as solemn as she was spirited and gay. She has resided at the convent in Cornwall where her brother is chaplain. They traveled hither with his grace, the Duke o' Cornwall and his ignominious nephew, Stepen, may the saints curse his name."

"Amen," I agree.

"There, yer raiment is as sparklin' as the moment o' their final shaping. 'Tis time old Pete got a bit o' his nightly allotment o' slumber. I'll take leave o' yerself now, if it pleases yer lordship. Thank ye for an amicable and enjoyable jawin' and the lessons in armor craft. I 'spect I'll run into yerself on the morrow." He bows and slips from the wardroom with an uneven gait.

I am suddenly very cold and tired and fall back on the couch after guttering the candle with dampened fingers. I wish I had allowed pretty Verna to tarry here to cuddle. It would be easier to pretend I rest with my love in my arms. I do not have long to feel remorse as I straightway fall fast asleep.

_**Four**_

"I am going to kill you." I tell him.

I think the quiet certainty in my voice registers with King Marcus even in his current state of heavy inebriation. He is standing over me, panting; I would guess that the surging of his blood from the exertion of beating me must have caused the liquid spirits to affect his reason all the more. After over a quarter hour of constant punching and kicking he has finally exhausted himself. I should keep my torn lips shut tightly over my pain clenched teeth, but I feel compelled to tell him what I have been thinking almost every waking minute of the three years since he murdered my family and captured me.

"Really?" he asks in his dry, wry voice while sloppily wiping my blood from his heavy rings onto his white linen tunic that on the morrow I will somehow have to get clean. He slumps against the stone wall and clutches the lead flagon of wine to his breast. "If we were in ancient Sparta you would have thanked me and offered yourself for buggering in gratitude for the toughing of your body." He lifts the flagon, opens his mouth, and between grunts swallows greedily. The dark wine makes blotches on the delicately embroidered royal standard covering his upper chest.

"No, Your Majesty, I am not going to kill you for hurting me. Someday I will be made a knight with the right to bear arms and mete justice. On that day I will take your life in payment for my father and brothers. But when I do so I will first make you suffer. The prolonged agony and shame of it will be recompense for what you have done to me." I wish I were not slurring my words as I say this. I wipe the pink bubbles formed by speaking from the corner of my mouth.

King Marcus cradles the flagon to his bosom as if it were a favored child. Smirking, nodding, and murmuring he falls asleep. I could easily draw his black serrated dagger, the one with which he slew my father, and either kill, maim, blind, or disfigure him. It is perhaps what he would have done if he had been in my boots. But the idea of standing in the arena before all his court while he begs me to spare his life has been my mainstay through all I have undergone. Were it taken from me I would have nothing to savor for the remainder of my days, and I am a young man, one with a romantic soul and Marcus' complete opposite when it comes to matters of honor. My revenge will keep. My body and resolve are being toughened for that day. I will remember to thank him just before I kill him.

I uncoil painfully from my crouch and limp down the corridor from the royal chambers. The fitful flickering light from the nigh depleted torches form only the odd opposite of shadows on the tapestry covered passage. Partial scenes from great hunts and battles are briefly illuminated. I must feel my way in areas where the torches are completely guttered. I am startled to find that there is a place along the wall where my trembling hand causes the heavy horse hair curtain to billow into open space. Puzzlement fills my mind. I pull the portiere away and marvel to discover that a section of massive stone wall is ajar. I soundlessly edge a short distance into the pitch dark corridor. I am about to retreat when I think I hear a distant echo of a woman's sharp moan. I hasten my progress deeper into the blackness, but remain silent as I stalk towards the sounds. The cries become more frequent and strident and mixed with the answering growls of a man as I approach a dim light. I wonder how I may, unarmed and untrained, subdue the miscreant who is harming the lady. I slide my wooden soled boot from my foot and swing it in the air before me. It and Fortin courage must suffice. At the terminus of the hidden passage there is another half open stone door and thick covering tapestry. I ease my fingers around the edge of the rough curtain and plunge my head and weapon brandishing arm into the chamber. I am frozen into immobility by what I find.

Prince Xander is astride the queen, and they are writhing in coitus. Her fingers grasp his rolling buttocks and her ankles are locked on his thighs. His hairy arms shudder as his back arches a final time. She answers him with a throaty mew and a final clenching of his body to her. They laugh, happily gasp together, and kiss deeply. Then Xander falls beside her on the sheets, panting contentedly, and she looks as pleased and delighted as I have ever seen her, at least until she see me braced for combat with my boot in my hand cocked to strike. Her expression changes briefly to horror then to resignation.

I lower my arm, bow deeply, and scurry back to the main corridor. Prince Xander catches up with me just before I reach the hallway to the servants' quarters. He is hastily dressed in the queen's green silk robe, which far too small for his tall frame. His still damp member swings below the bottom hem. My eyes dart away to the ceiling.

He does not speak but falls in stride beside me.

"I shall not testify to what I witnessed, Your Majesty. Your secret and your sin are safe with me." My formality covers my deep embarrassment.

Xander looks at me and nods but does not slacken his pace. I dart in front of him holding out my small, bruise blotched hand.

"Were you to continue further, Your Majesty, you need not fear my tongue. Your present attire would betray your guilt."

He looks down at the royal lady's dressing gown and grimaces, then his eyes find mine. "Why?" he demands.

I find no way to answer him.

Xander notes my consternation and elaborates, "He is your bondmaster, Pachet. During the feasts as you stood behind us I have often observed how heatedly your face glows when the bards tell tales of chivalry and honor. Why would you offer your silence when to expose our crime would be your duty?"

"You love her and she you. There was a glance between you and the queen that reminded me of ones shared by my father and mother over breakfast before Marcus separated forever one devoted set of eyes from the other. What is my obligation to your brother when put on the balance against such true passion? I say it is _nothing."_

That is when I see through my tears the small gilt handled blade Xander has pressed to his thigh. It is with the other hand that he presses his palm to my sore shoulder. I do not let him know that it hurts terribly. "I will find a way to show you our thanks, my small friend."

I shake my head furiously and leave him to find my pallet and no sleep.

King Xander pulls me from dreams of my boyhood into his arms. He is chortling with delight into my ear that his happiness is complete now I have come to see him wed. He holds me at arms length to look at me. I am at last fully awake. Though my slumber was for only a few short hours I have not slept as deeply in years. The familiar smell of the burning peat holding the autumnal chill at bay was very soothing.

"What a fine, strong man you have become, Pachet!" he expostulates.

"If you will pardon the observation, Your Majesty, you seem much more time worn than the tithe of the intervening years might have wrought." His eyebrows are courser and lightly frosted with white and there are only touches of gray in his dark brown hair. But his visage is drawn, thin, and pale. His purple cassock is loose on his shoulders. His grip is nothing close to that which I remember.

"We have been ill since just after our brother's death. Perhaps the practice of kingship is more fatiguing than we thought."

Following the ancient Druidic wedding custom he washes my feet as his honored guest. Xander is a Christian but still observes many of the old ways. I lave the rest of me and pull on my fresh aketon, breeches, and polished hauberk. The I unroll the indigo silk surcoat from the doeskin, and Xander helps me guide it over my armor. The snowy white fleur-de-lis emblazons the center of my chest. I don my boots, gold gorgets, and gauntlets and fasten the wide oiled leather belt around my waist and position myself before him at attention.

"Will you honor us by standing at our side as the vows are made?" Xander asks.

"Your Majesty gives me greater esteem than I deserve."

"As our only son you could take no other place. When we have a moment we will have you invested as prince over all Connaught."

"If it pleases your majesty, I will comply. Do mark that I am an avowed vassal noble of Charles and France. He is my liege, and I am here at his pleasure first and my own second, however keenly I feel it."

"We understand your primary allegiance but yet would have you receive the title as our gift to one we love more than any save our soon to be wife."

I bow and he embraces me again.

"Let us break our fast," he suggests, grinning, though he seems not to have much stomach for his meal.

I gather my weapons and follow him across the courtyard to the inner wards and keep. A lavish buffet of spelt bread, fruits, sausages, honey, and soft cheeses is spread on a long table in the great hall. The morning light comes from iron latticed windows on the wall facing the lake. Serving wenches huddle in the corner clutching heavy wooden buckets of mead and milk. There is a large cross of Saint Brigid fashioned from fresh green rushes hanging from the rafters on the wall opposite the windows. It is the only decoration. All of Marcus's captured banners have been removed.

I recognize Earl Stepen who is already seated beside an older man, presumably Duke Halbert, and their two wives. Stepen is much as he was before, a tall, slender man with a handsome face that time has only burnished. His curly russet hair is pomaded back from his high forehead. He wears a short crimson cape on his shoulders. The girl refilling his silver mug with hot spiced mead limps and favors her left side. Stepen's eyes shine from slits atop his prominent cheek bones. There is a confident smile above his dimpled chin. The duke has the same grin and dimple but he is no where nearly as pretty as his nephew. He is balding and has a pronounced stockiness ill concealed by loosely fashioned chain mail. They do not rise, and I pointedly neglect to bow. The exact rankings of peerage are too complicated to work out. Xander takes his place at the head of the table and introduces me to his guests. Besides the Cornish contingent there are Xander's other vassal monarchs from Mayo, Roscommon, Sligo, Clare, and Conmaicne-Mara as well a princeling envoys from the other five kingdoms of Ireland: Meath, Laigin, Ulaid, and Munster.

We all find our feet as the bishop joins us accompanied by once-prince now-Father Sean and the temporarily still Princess Sinéad. The bishop holds out his carbuncle ring for Xander to kiss, then, surprisingly, to me before offering it to the duke, duchess, the scowling Earl Stepen and his wife Winifred, and the rest of the aristocratic company. A page answers Xander's question that the queen and Princess Marin will each breakfast in their respective chambers. The bishop drones a rapid prayer over the food, and we all sit down to eat.

Queen Gallina's children will only nibble the crusts from the ends of the loaves and sip well water. They avert their eyes from the rest of the morning's feast. It pains me that the always laughing Sinèad wears such a dower, haunted expression. Her color is poor and there are shadows beneath her young green eyes. The bishop, a very fat, very pale man with a high giggly voice and no body hair at all scoops some herbed goat cheese on a slaver of bread and munches whole clusters of grapes, spitting the seeds and stems onto the rush covered floor. He fastidiously wipes the corner of his mouth with a thick pinkie afterward. He has a rank, spoiled fish odor. He must be from a religious order that laves only twice a year.

I sit as far away from him as possible, wrap a sausage in a spelt bannock, and accept a tall pottery mug of warm, sweetened milk from Perry. His wild almost orange hair is tied behind his head with a piece of blue colored string that matches his eyes. He has the brass to wink at me.

"I believe that the last time I saw you, yon Strange Frankish Knight, you were standing behind the late king as his dogbody. How is it that you are given precedence over a duke?" Stepen asks me.

Xander coughs and smiles, "Son, would you allow us to answer for you?" I nod. "Sir Pachet was born scion of King Condé Fortin of the marches of Brittany, vassal of High-King Pepin of the Franks. He can trace his lineage back to Ban, bondsman king of Less Britain under Arthur. My dearly departed brother Marcus took Sir Pachet in a raid to be his personal slave. We recognized the lad's noble virtue and adopted him as our son and heir. He was given the title of Prince of Conmaicne-Mara when we were made king of that province with the proviso that he continue to serve our brother as squire instead of dogbody. Condé Fortin's kingdom was given by Emperor Charles to his closest friend Comte Roland who later married Sir Pachet's sister Princesse Eleanor when she came of age. Roland's infant son is now comte, and Comtesse Eleanor serves as his regent. She invested her brother with the title of vicomte. Sir Pachet has taken Roland's place as captain of one of Charles' armies. Moreover, he is second in line to our throne after whomever should marry our niece, Marin."

"Impressive. Do you joust?" Stepen asks, licking butter from his fingers.

"I have never had time to play at games of war having been too much engaged in actual combat. I hear you are quite unsurpassed at the tilting at rings and quintains," I reply.

"I have also unhorsed a haughty man or two. Perhaps one day we might cross lances?"

Xander interrupts my eager rejoinder, "Come now. This is our wedding day! Let no talk of conflict mar our happy mood. Come Lughnasa we will arrange a tourney if you young rams care to knock horns. Today we will have no grudges. When next our bishop has his ring kissed, Duke Halbert and Sir Stepen may precede Sir Pachet, though the following time will be Sir Pachet first. Agreed?"

"Well settled my liege," Halbert pronounces, giving his hot-headed nephew a glare of warning. He is well aware that his title and station owed much to the affection the late Marcus bore him. I can read from his face that he feels that causing the new king to be angry by challenging _his_ protégé was a very poor tactic on his stupid nephew's part.

After the formal meal concludes Xander leads me to the high battlements to talk in private. "The nerve of that scoundrel, Stepen, to take such petty umbrage over the order of kissing that hoggish Italian eunuch's ring, as if the custom was not ludicrous enough."

"It troubles me not, Your Majesty. I, myself, was surprised that I preceded the rest."

"We passed the bishop word through our niece, Sinéad. We are delighted that he acquiesced. He does not often follow our wishes. As soon as it is practical we plan on having this bishop replaced by a member of the secretly surviving Culdee sect. We have our eye on the more tractable abbot of the local monastery."

In Ireland there were two main branches of Christianity vying for ascendancy, Catholics and Culdees. The former held that the pope in Rome was the living representative of God on earth and that all men were born sinners and could only achieve the Christian heaven through the intervention of a clergy ultimately ordained and ruled by an Italian papacy. The latter, who first introduced Christianity to Ireland long before the Roman Emperor Constantine took over the governance of the faith from those his predecessors tormented, followed what was termed the Peligian Heresy which held that only acts of men made them good or evil and that no hierarchy should exist between God's son and all of his believers. If I were not such a staunch pagan I would have been happy to be a Culdee. In 716 a synod was held in Iona during which the Culdee bishops agreed to disband and be absorbed into the much larger Italian ruled organization. My second great sorrow in life is that my lord Charles, like his father and grandfather before him found it politically advantageous to support the power of the Italian pontiff. I understand his reasons for doing so. Nothing could give a temporal monarch as great a control over diverse, superstitious, and fearful people then the shackles created by the Christian phantasmal version of the afterlife for those they would deem wicked. For three quarters of a millennium the spreading the gospel of the horrors of hell has been the Catholic Church's largest effort, done all in the name of brotherly love.

I admire Xander for his atypical stance, "It is not a conflict I expect you will win, Your Majesty. Should you succeed in ousting or eliminating this troublesome prelate I would expect that the Vatican would ignore your nominee and appoint another countryman or an Irishman equally intensely loyal to their edicts."

"We expect you are correct, but our friend the abbot has publicly, long and loudly, espoused his fealty to the pope. Perhaps we may be able to effect this installment should one of Charles' trusted Catholic nobles added his recommendation?"

I smile. As much as he tells me that he loves me, Xander seeks to make use of my station. It would cause no betrayal of my loyalty to Charles to agree this favor. "I think I should meet this abbot, Your Majesty. Perhaps he would hear my confession before your nuptials. I expect that the bishop will be too busy with the other guests'. I have been long on the road and necessarily lapsed from observance of holy mass which is among diverse other transgressions."

"Son Pachet, we well know that our older sister, Erindella, did instruct you in the Ancient Faith, and you took it as your own. Fear not. You may be honest with our abbot. He respects whatever beliefs may dwells in all hearts and minds and accepts them equally as long as they cause no one ill."

"Then I will be glad to second your choice from my own volition and not just from my love for you, Your Majesty."

"You have our love in return and our thanks."

The morning is sunny, crisp, and clear. To the west is the expanse of the sea and the Aran Islands. Southward lies the rocky Burran on the other side of broad Gallimh Bay; eastward there are rolling yellow fields of cropped stalks of shorn grain. To the north the purple mass of the Ten Bens rise above gentle hills and the long blue lake. Dark clouds gather about the peaks of those tall mountains, and I fear we shall have rain before the afternoon is done. The chilly onshore breeze teases and cracks Xander's green banner high over our heads.

Marcus looks at the sky over the highlands and confirms my assessment of the weather, "This is so unlike our queen's first wedding day. It was held on Beltane in the Year of our Lord, 752; a fair, soft Spring day with not a hint of dirty weather. We - _I_ was charged with escorting Gallina to her groom. I loved Marcus then. He was my older brother and hero. He was often away plundering what he could from Britain and Norman coasts and establishing the colony in Corwall with his battle captain, cousin, and protégé, Halbert. I ably commanded his home guard. When Marcus was not away we had merry sport together and laughed long. Then Princess Gallina came of age, and Marcus sent me to Meath for her. She was the suzerain's next to youngest daughter. She rode inside the palanquin nearly the whole trip so I did not espy even a glimpse of her. When we stopped in the evening knights from her father's retinue erected a canvas pavilion about her wagon and her maids attended to her needs. I and my party were directed to bivouac no less than a tenth of a league away. Somehow I got it in my foolish head that I should check and make certain that there was a princess behind all that thick cloth and that she was not in some way deformed. I knew Marcus wanted strong heirs, and a queen with a noticeable defect would lower his standing among the province monarchies.

"So I infiltrated the men-at-arms' pickets and skirted the tight watch of nuns and handmaidens to arrive in the inner precincts of the makeshift woven fortress. The lady was not frightened when I crawled beneath the tent wall. She merely returned my stare and gracefully drew a small knife that she carried on a chain around her pretty neck.

"She was so beautiful on her guard. Her pale skin was high colored with blush, and her blue eyes flashed at me. Her long, honey gold hair was unfurled over her milky shoulders. Her every muscle was clenched in readiness; her bosom swelled and ebbed as she struggled to calm herself for battle. She was even smiling grimly.

"I quietly introduced myself and explained my mission. She understood and admired my stealth and determination in circumventing her protectors. She regally rose, twirling her lush body before me. Through the thin robe I could see the straightness of her limbs and the soft curve of the flesh on them. After I proclaimed myself well satisfied that she was sound I kissed her hand and withdrew as carefully as I had come.

"I was sorely jealous of my brother for the first time on his wedding night. The sight of his bride's body had altered something between us. I was no longer the cheerful younger prince; I became bitter and sarcastic. Because Marcus stopped his life of adventure abroad, he assumed my role as captain of the militia. I was expected to spend my time in hunting or other highborn pursuits. I requested the chance to perform raids as Marcus had done but was commanded to not prosecute any further foreign action. Marcus did not want to chance reprisals as he favored a settled, secure life. So I made two year long pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

"In less than three cycles of the seasons Marcus became bored with both his queen and the quiet rule of his kingdom. But instead of taking once more to sea he instead floated himself on a different fluid. I had brought back with me from Jerusalem the method of distilling liquor from grains. I found the taste agreeable though disliked the effect. Marcus was the exact opposite. He began his lifelong thralldom to whiskey which, as you well know, he mixed in with strong wine for flavor.

"After my return, which was just after Marin was born, the queen and I began to spend many hours together. At first she was anxious for tales of my travels in Israel and Europe, but soon we discovered another, common land which to explore.

"To keep her children from detecting our assignations and to protect them from the ever more violently bullying Marcus, Gallina sent them into fosterage, Sean and eventually Sinéad to Halbert in Cornwall and, because she was to be wife to the duke, Marin to Gallina's brother the suzerain in Meath.

"We were always discreet and hid our trysts from all discovering eyes save yours. I was sure that I had latched the outer door behind me that night. The little people themselves must have opened it for you. For two and a half decades we have played at brother-in-law and queen. Tonight it finally ends."

He is silent for a time. We watch the storm clouds accumulate. Just before Sext is rung a page calls for Xander. Something requires his attention. Once more he clasps my shoulder and directs the boy to guide me to his worship the abbot.

I stand at attention next to Xander as he waits for his bride to complete her procession up the center gallery of the Wyckoff Cathedral. As bishopric churches go it is not as lavish as many I have seen. My country men are far more advanced in the science of architecture. The innovation of flying buttresses has yet to cross the channel. Wyckoff Cathedral is only four or five stories tall and not very ornate. It is little more than a long, narrow, rectangular vaulted stone building with one flat and one curved end with two half square side wings in its middle. The interior carvings are all in yew and oak instead of marble or other stone and the stainglass windows are crudely wrought. The tile on the floor, which in continental cathedrals is laid in a complex maze pattern to indicate that finding God is a mystery, is a uniform dull muddy green. Worst of all, the masonry work on the nave has not yet been completed so the sharp smells from lime and animals used in construction fog the dusty air.

Swinging the censer before the queen is my new friend the abbot. I found him to be a meek and thoughtful fellow. We had a very pleasant and lengthy chat about the nature of Divine Love until we were summoned to take our respective parts in the wedding ceremony. In reverse rank order the nobles of various houses bow in waves as Queen Gallina paces slowly passed them. The perfect symmetry is ruined when all heads crane to watch and whisper as a late arrival makes her unhurried way to stand with her siblings on the other side of the apse. Following her lope the Gryphons. They must have been sent to fetch her.

It is, of course, the Princess Marin.

The princess is dressed in a semi-rigid high-necked coal black gown with a tall scalloped raven fan across the shoulders. Instead of the conical hat worn by other ladies of her station she sports a triangular ebony satin cap with a thick black veil that completely hides her face. Her carriage is stiff, proud, and erect. I think no one would believe her nervous, but the way she twirls the thin silver ring on her left forefinger betrays to me her agitation. I wonder if she notes how my burbuta trembles as I hold it beneath my arm.

When the queen reaches her spot before the altar, she towers over her tardy daughter and hisses, "Why are you dressed in such dismal clothes on my wedding day?" The acoustics are such that the _sotto voce_ remark is plainly heard by all in attendance as is the pain filled reply.

"Mother, I am in mourning. You may not remember it, but my father died recently. Besides I match my brother and sister." The last was true as Sean wears the black chasuble of a priest and Sinéad the dark gray habit of a neophyte nun. Hearing the timbre of Marin's voice forces me to finally breathe. I had not realized that I had stopped inhaling since I had caught sight of her small form as it entered door of the right transept. It was much as if I had felt her presence before my eyes beheld her entry. Erindella always joked that The Sight was mine when it was important to me.

The echoes of both her angry question and its answer reach the queen, and she purrs menacingly, "We will talk of this later." Gallina turns to the bishop who raises his pasty hands over the couple's heads and begins the sacred rite.

Outside the heavens open, and great gouts of rain assault the leaky roof. Streams of chalky water pour over scattered sections of the pews. The guests dart about to drier spots. The Gryphons hold a seized cloak over the groom and bride's head until the service concludes.

_**Five**_

"I want to go back to Cornwall too," the distraught Sinéad opines.

"You must stay here with your sister a while longer, Princess Sinéad. She needs your counsel and comfort," the bishop squeaks.

"I am no longer a princess; I am an oblate nun, anxiously awaiting becoming the bride of Our Lord the Christ," she quietly laments with averted eyes.

"You are some four months short of reaching your full majority and so cannot legally renounce your heritage as your pious brother did. Stay here and be instructed by me, My Child. I will round your studies with my accumulated wisdom of nearly a full jubilee, and it will bring much joy to your over-anguished sibling to have you close. Let us have no further discord at the marriage table. Need I report your willful behavior to the abbotess of your order?"

"I will humbly obey, Your Worship. Pardon my stubbornness. It must have been the devil who pushed me to such pertinacity. I ask you to please administer penance yourself after the feast has concluded."

"Well spoken, My Child. Sixteen lashes of leather on your bare back should suffice. To reward you for so swiftly seeing the proper course I will give you leave of your promise of abstinence to sample some of the subtleties when they are brought out. I hear that one has been shaped like your father."

Subtleties are flavored confections of jellied frosting formed into the likenesses of saints or heroes. They are usually too cloying for my simple palate. I sit at Xander's side and pick at my repast. I am not used to such rich victuals. My lord Charles sets a plain table. Stout rye loaves, pork, beef, lamb, goose, and grilled hare or pheasant are all he serves. The spices in the sauces make my nose itch. The clove, garlic, coriander, paprika, saffron, ginger, and cinnamon seem to spoil the taste of the various meats. So much the worse, the fowl is peacock, swan, and pigeon which are mostly all skin and bone. The overly curried lobster has been at least freed from its obstruction to edibility. Xander is proud of his extravagance having purchased from a trader even costly savory rhubarb cultivated only in the far Orient. To make him happy I spread some ground horseradish on the smoked salmon and tear a soft section from the woven bread. Then Xander grins at me and directs the server to bring me a surprise treat which I still love most, marinated milden. I am touched that he remembered. When I was a boy I astonished all with my passion for the long, thin, red veined greens with small, sweet, dark maroon tubers at the ends stewed in salted butter and vinegar. I do not know why I find them so delectable. Something about the combination of flavors likes me passing well. I gorge myself, gleefully plucking with my eager fingers the sweet leaves from the buttery brine.

Jugglers, dwarves, and dancing girls gambol before us while a madrigal quartet sweetly churns a lay about saints and angels enthusiastically blessing the union of the happy couple. Pipe, harp, and drum accompany them. The wine and ale spend little time in their pitchers. Streamers of green silk hang from the rafters.

"Do I have your leave, My King, to return with my foster father, Duke Halbert to Cornwall?" Sean asks politely.

"If your spiritual father the bishop allows it so, then we have no objection," Xander says.

"I will much miss his learned company as it was he who did set my feet on the path that I have happily followed, but my place is with my Cornish congregation."

"He has my blessing to depart Wyckoff, Your Majesty," the bishop wheezes through a full mouthful of candied pork, "though we also will miss our prize pupil. If he wishes he may also receive some penance, though in his case in advance, from my hand."

Sinéad gives her brother a pleading look and he agrees.

"Where is Marin?" Queen Gallina says giving voice to the question I have not dared ask but most keenly wonder.

"She is in attendance at her father's tomb in solemn prayer, Your Majesty. She supped little just after the ceremony and hastened herself hence," Perry answers her while setting another roasted baby rabbit before the bishop.

"We wish she would stop lapping at the wound like a stricken bitch puppy," Xander snarls to his bride. "It is well passed time she turn from mourning to mirth over her mother's joy. Does she not care for how her behavior might dampen your day of bliss?"

"I agree. She is a most troublesome child," the queen says.

"I am loathe to admit it but my father, the suzerain in Meath, did despoil her temperament," the prince of that monarchy states. "He was so taken with her bright wit and considered reason that he allowed her freedoms beyond those suitable for a young woman even of her highborn station. She never learned the strictures of her sex. The creature felt she was my equal just because she had the luck to always best me at chess."

Xander nods, "And when she returned here after her opprobrious adventure in Cornwall Marcus continued the folly of spoliation. He even gave her the counterfeit belief that it was she and not we who truly ruled Connaught." Perry gives me a unnecessary look to let me know that the truth is not Xander's compass.

Duke Halbert turns to Stepen and loudly calls out, "I thank you again, Nephew, for saving me from wedding that reckless harpy. I am much better matched by my dear meek and docile Annath."

"On the morrow I will have a long chat with her and remind her of her duties to her surviving parent and her new king," the bishop declares. "If the words do not turn her disposition perhaps the judicious but thorough application of the whip by my holy hand will."

"If you will succeed, Godly Bishop, our gratitude will be great indeed," the queen says. "I will bare her stiff spine for your sanctified smiting myself."

I can tolerate no more of this; I turn to Xander and say, "By your leave, Your Majesty, I would take a walk up to Ramsey Tor. I have not had occasion today for exercise, and my warrior blood is running cramped."

"Stay, stay. Romp double on the morrow," Xander jests. "Remain here with us."

"Please, Your Majesty, this boon of your leave would be most appreciated, almost as much as your thoughtfulness in directing the preparation of my favorite succulent herbs. Besides, methinks you will not tarry here much longer yourself. The huge bed in the royal apartments must directly call. I do not expect you will require my company then."

The queen gives Xander a smoldering but abashed look, and he merrily pushes me from his table.

"Where will you find your rest after your jaunt?" Xander asks.

"If Parson Sean does not mind I would slumber in his chamber."

Sean shrugs and nods his agreement, "I have selected the smallest, but you are welcome to share it, brother."

I bow and depart. Once I leave the hall I turn away from the passage to the courtyard and hastily descend the slate stairs to the royal crypt.

"You have barbarian's whiskers covering your face, but you do not hide your cheek. Can you not understand that I would rather be alone?"

I do not reply to the princess harsh greeting. Instead I lay my burbuta and arms on one of the wooden side tables holding tiered ranks of votive candles in colored glass cups that provide the only light in the royal crypt. They are spaced evenly about the round room, and the flickering light from them reflects off of the very low, white washed ceiling. In the center is the rectangular stone sarcophagus of the house of Wyckoff. Two effigies hang on the wall. They are supposedly the likenesses of Marcus's father, Rubalt, who built the castle, and his wife, Gwenling. Erindella could have chosen to be buried down here, but she kept with the old custom and was cremated atop an oaken bier inside the standing stones. She gave me the honor of placing the torch on the bier to light her way.

I lower myself onto my benders next to Marin on the hard cobblestone floor. There is a pew with a cushioned kneeling rail beside us. It looks quite comfortable. I am grateful for the thick padding behind the shin guards strapped to my breeches. I pull off my leather gauntlets, clasp my battle callused hands together, and hold them so my thumbs touch the top of the fleur-de-lis on my chest. I tilt my head down and offer a earnest orison to the Thrice Blessed Goddess on behalf of the wretched soul that wanders Ramsey Tor and for the equally troubled one praying beside me in the deep basement of Wyckoff Castle. Her black gown is sopping wet from standing unconcerned beneath the leaky cathedral roof, and her starched shoulder fan has wilted. Water still drips from her rigidly bent elbows. It is very cold down here. The product of my shallow breathing collects on my bearded chin.

Marin ignores me and continues to mumble in Latin for a bit before finally hissing, "Why are you not at feast with the others? Why be you here?"

"I came hither to pay my respects. I would pray for your father."

"Do not seek to cozen me with feigned fealty to my sire's memory. You came to Wyckoff Castle for my uncle's wedding."

"I meant down those stairs, not the long journey entire. But the two events were spaced close enough together; I was sorely pressed to arrive in Ireland in the span between receiving the tidings of the first and the act of the second."

She pauses for a moment before continuing, "I was given to believe that you felt only most acid hate for my father. Many years ago he himself did tell me so. The noble King Marcus grimly related that he full expected that that any day you would return to County Gallimh and do him murder in hot single combat. It that not the card of what you vowed?"

"I changed my mind."

The veiled head turns and looks up at me. The palms of her small white hands separate slightly as her elbows unbend in shock. _"You changed your mind?_ Marcus slew your sire, caused the deaths of your two brothers, and impressed you into abject slavery. He cruelly beat you and ridiculed you for a decade, and you changed your mind?"

"Yes. In time I learned to forgive him."

"But you made a vow!"

"It was the angry, ill considered pledge of a child and not binding on the sufficiently maturated man."

At this Marin knots her hands into fists of frustration and lays them on the stone sarcophagus before swiftly recovering her composure. She squares herself back into the stiff posture of Christian prayer. I allow myself to look at her profile which is all that I can view through the closely embroidered black veil. She has her father's strong oval chin. Though her lower lip is full the top one is a trifle thin. I cannot see the slightly arched nostrils of her well formed nose. Her angular cheeks are capped by nicely spaced eyes and a smooth, flat brow. I wonder if I would still find her as intensely beautiful. The backs of her tiny hands have become veined and spotted as those of an much older woman.

"How did such a thing as this forgiveness come to pass?" She asks, twisting slightly away from me.

"I would rather not say."

"Then I command you to answer."

"Command away. I will say no more on this theme than to mention that luckily for me King Marcus had already annihilated all the male members of my family. I have no cheek left to turn."

"Do you mock me, Pachet? Here at my not long dead father's grave?"

"No. I only replied in my own fashion to your impertinent question."

_"Impertinent!"_

"Yes, Marin. I am no longer your father's dogbody or even squire. I am a Frankish knight, captain, and vicomte. I serve another king and so am not bound to answer to any command you would care to give. What you demand to know is my own affair."

"Is there no courtesy at all in the land of the vulgar Franks? Do you not know how to properly address a princess royal, even one not of your liege-lord's house?"

"Since I have been proclaimed as prince-elect royal of this very land you, too, would need to address me as such. I thought the repeated "your majesties" would prove tedious and slow down our conversation."

"We have naught to discuss."

"Ah, but, Your Majesty, we do."

"What then, Sir Captain Vicomte Prince-Elect, would you say to me?"

"First, I need you to lift up your night dark veil."

"Why?"

"Curtained eyes cannot see the truth. The light is poor in this dank subterranean chamber, and in here that dense concealment must blind you to all but the barest of shapes. What I must tell you contains an element of the fantastic, and if you do not read the certainty in my gaze you will scarce believe my account though it is well honest, I warrant you, on my dear sister's life. You belittle me for being a Frank, but if I were to be wholly frank and you see not my eyes, you may not be convinced. And to be convinced you must, not for my sake, but for your own. Please, uncover your face; what disadvantage does the act threaten?"

"None I may naturally conjecture, though your naked and ardent importuning gives rise to the apprehension that there must be at least one. Are you so sure that sight of your orbs during the telling will prove your words?"

"Nay, but after many campaigns in the field I have learned that one must chose the best ground one can before engaging in a struggle."

"Will this then be a battle? Is there to be a contest between us, Pachet? Do you figure to lay some siege?"

"My lady, I misspoke. It was an ill chosen metaphor. I do beg pardon for it as well as my earlier rash glibness and inexcusable lack of empathy for you on this most trying night."

"The only trying knight is you, Sir Pachet Fortin. What troubles do you presume are writ upon my register?"

"Let me speak plain then, My Lady Marin. I know you sorely miss your beloved father and are much suffering to see your mother wed his brother while the former marital sheets have not yet quite time enough to properly cool. As a Christian woman you must be nettled since their union smacks of the sin of incest though the bishop was careful to misquote from the scriptures the story of Onan who reluctantly took to his bed his brother's wife by God's will. I realize you are stung by the rebuff of your people whom you much love but who gave their love and loyalty to your untried uncle and not their long time accomplished regent. Are these not troubles plenty? If not after a decade away there is the return to Wyckoff of Ste . . . "

"Your point is made, Knight," Marin interrupts. "You have struck deeply and into enough broad targets. I give you exoneration for your previous ill manners. Practice to avoid further transgressions."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I was being, yes, a vulgar cad, and, again yes, I did long carry in my bosom rank enmity for your father, but, Princess Marin, Your Deserved Majesty, have I not always been your friend? Were we not ever uniform allies against innumerable foes real and imaginary? Have I even once done you the slightest mischief? I bear you only the sweetest and most cherished esteem. I refered to a struggle because I know full well that the tale I must tell, though utterly accurate, strains even the minimum credulity. I must satisfy your mind when my own the belief in the report is only weakly credited, and I witnessed it myself with these steadfast eyes. I need you to see for yourself that in spite of what I say I am not raving mad. You once called me your most trusted friend. In short, will you allow me into your precious confidence again? In exchange I swear surety that I would sooner perish than abuse it."

Her voice is very much softened as she answers me, "Would you be my friend, Kind Pachet? S'truth, I have had none since my father left me behind."

"Yes. I would."

"Would you be willing to pledge your primary allegiance to me and forswear any conflicting obligation to my uncle who adopted you as his son? I warn you that proof of this partiality may soon be tested as I know that the new king is at best tepid in his fondness for me. I did oft heatedly argue with him when I was my father's regent. I suspect his heart is not as quick as yours to proffer forgiveness."

"Know that you have, as ever, my greatest devotion and fidelity, over even that which I owe my sister and my sovereign, Charles. The only greater loyalty I can assert is to my Goddess above. Yes, I do make that pledge."

"As you did constantly when you were a youth, Pachet, you go well beyond that which is asked or even necessary. I do not know if my star should be so highly fixed in your firmament and so must demand you further promise that you will never ask my uncle for my hand in marriage."

It is fortunate that I am already on my knees as such a request would most likely have driven me there. I cautiously appeal, "May I ask why you would require such a guarantee?"

"Countess Winifred whispered to me in our shared chamber after the breakfast meal that King Xander has made you second in line to his throne behind whomever would be my husband. She thought such a statement would fill me with delight. She thought wrongly. I would be sure that your offer of paramount affection is not that of a pretended paramour seeking a means of advancement in succession by a soft notch."

"This seems to me to be an odd stipulation, what with the new king only some fifty days crowned however poorly balanced in humors he was in aspect this morning, but I do understand your concern though it sharply stings that you would think such of me. Milady, I have no desire for your kingdom. I freely vow never to ask Xander for your hand in pursuit of it."

"If I seemed to have shamefully wronged you by having my suspicions, Sir Fortin, you will grant that I have cause. You have been ten years abroad and may well have readily garnered prideful ambition along with your virtue of forgiveness. It matters not. The kingship of fair Connaught is sure to be yours anyway; I have made a blood oath that I shall die before I will take any man as husband."

I begin to ask why she made such a dire covenant, but wisdom whispers in my soul and stays that query. Instead I affirm, "The only engagement I seek is a renewal of our much prized pact of solid friendship. Please, Sir Maranatha, see before you once more your faithful and fervent servant. I have added beard and breadth, but the unchanged heart inside is that of your squire ever eager to do you loyal service."

The appellation I use is her favored childhood nickname. She gasps when she hears it. A space of several breaths passes as she examines me through the thick dark lace prior to her reply, "Since you are my friend, and I finally remember that I am indeed yours, please remove my veil yourself, Dear Pachet."

We turn to face each other, and I, as I have done more than a thousand thousand times in my dreams, place my fingers on her veil and draw it slowly up to reveal her lovely hazel eyes. They are as I have always remembered and imagined, strong and willful but overfilled with some frightening pain and wild longing that would surely crush a person of any lesser character. What is more jarring than the viewing of her exquisite face after so many empty years of grievously missing it is the raw soreness caused by hot salt tears that have all but scalded the long lashed lids and chapped the smooth cheeks.

"Do you understand my quibbling hesitancy now, Sweet Pachet? I may only allow a true friend to see this usually resolute princess weep." At this, fresh moist misery boils from within her; she lowers her face and stifles her sobs. I know better than to pull her into my arms and attempt to comfort her and use the respite from both her sight and the charming sight of her to collect myself. Inside my hauberk my muscles have become as soft as stalks of wheat. Small fires seem to char the back of my skull. She makes use of her kerchief and looks away and so misses observing my momentary dizziness caused by the effort it took not to hold her.

"So what is your desperate news?" she asks.

"Let us take our ease in the pew. The telling will come easier and the hearing not as vexing," I suggest.

She nods her agreement. I stand and offer her my hand. She does not notice and painfully pulls herself to her feet using her father's tomb. She must tug her gown free from where it has adhered itself to her knees. The stones where she kneeled are pink. When we are seated on the ornately figured oak benches she points to the half carved effigy of her father. "See his memorial is not yet fully shaped. The sculptor has only had time to limn the torso and sketch out his limbs. His fine visage is completely buried within the block of marble." I do not point out that from the design the stone king plainly holds a prayer book and not a jar. The Marcus I knew was as illiterate as he was always thirsty.

I lock my gaze to hers, pull breath deep, and begin, "Last evening I was on Ramsey Tor within the circle of standing stones giving due homage and thanks to my Goddess."

"That is the second time you give the Deity a feminine denomination, Pachet. Do you still hold fast to the teachings of my aunt and the dusty ancient wise ways while in the holy army of the Papal Protector?"

"Between us, My Dear Confidante, Charles and I have an quiet understanding. Truth be told, much of his piety is plain politics. A common and strict religion holds followers fast better than any other means."

"I see. I did not give much merit to the hagiography bleated by the bishop but did not imagine the emperor so pragmatic."

"There is some token regard for the Catholic faith behind Charles' motives, but it is not much more than imperial neck verses." Neck verses are lines of Latin that thieves memorize so that should they be caught they may claim to be clergy and then only tried in an easier ecclesiastical court and sentenced to labor in cloister gardens instead of gallows.

"Interesting! We must discuss this topic further at a later time. Pray continue your tale."

"Just after the clear bells of matins rang I was approached by an armored figure who strode up the hill with the rising mist. Earlier I had been warned by the Gryphons that an encounter with such a phantom was possible as some strange shape had been espied by the tower watch on many a night previous. I sent the brutish brothers to their sportive cups and took the post as sentinel because my devotions and curiosity compelled me to linger longer."

Marin nods, "The night patrol did make report of such an apparition saying it resembled more closely than this statue my father's form. My barely crowned uncle made many a crude jest that my father was back from his grave seeking a potent libation from the faerie folk who live about that haunted hill. And still Xander allows the tower guard a tall draught of ale every three hours to stay chill in the blood. Had I still been regent I would have had those fanciful sentries barred from all potables while seeing safe our defenses. I am surprised to find that they spoke the truth. Did you close on the interloper and ascertain what absurd manner of irreverent recreation was being enacted?"

"You know me, Marin. I do not favor more than an occasional a mug of barley beer, and I am not of the type of man who lets his wits be jangled. As the intruder approached I was not disconcerted to discover that it wore the familiar dragon winged helm. I labeled him impostor and charged him to reveal his identity. He slid back his visor to show me the haggard countenance of your late father as plain to me as your own in every detail. I even marked the smudge of whisker beneath the left side of his nose that his barber always avoided shaving after once being badly flogged for accidentally nicking the nostril of his king. My first thought that Marcus had shammed his demise. Such an extended jape would be in keeping with his disposition."

"True, it would have been when you knew him, though he had much changed over the years after you left. He eventually lost all the anger and bitterness he carried for the world and sought only to cheerfully lose himself further in his steady tippling. I know that my father is dead; I was the one to prepare his body for internment in this sepulcher. I laved his thin corpse and wrapped him in his cerements. But yes, the aged barber did still leave that particular spot one last time even when his kingly client was beyond bleeding."

"By an incontrovertible test I came to the same conclusion."

"What evidence?"

I pause, intensely ashamed.

"Pachet, tell me what happened," she demands.

"I ran him through with my dirks."

"You did what? I heard you say you forgave him."

"I had, but mocking Marcus made me angrier than I have ever been in duel or battle. I strongly believe he did so on purpose. I do not think he is as completely reformed as you hope, though the unhappy course of events might have churned up some of his settled rancor. The steel did him no harm. He continued to tease me and was less troubled from being skewered than he would be from my blowing my breath in his face. It was he that was there, Marin. I swear it."

"I do trust you, Pachet, though you will own that your testimony is far and away passed precedent and goodly reason. You were correct; clearly seeing your bold eyes does aid me in this conclusion. Did my father say what he wanted after he finished tormenting you?"

"Your father's shade charged me to deliver a confidential communication to his ever devoted daughter."

"What is this most welcome message?" Marin favors me with her glowing smile which for a moment threatens to unseat my reason.

After a difficult pause during which I pretend to recall the exact phrasing I answer, "He bade me tell you that he longs to discuss some important matter with you. He said he has heard you when you nightly call for him over the lake from your bedchamber window but will not venture in here since it has become another's dominion."

More tears try to douse the sparking flares in Marin's hazel eyes. She blinks the moisture away and excitedly asks, "When and where would he wish me to go to him?"

"This coming midnight on the far side of the Tor."

"Then I shall go. Thank you, Dearest Pachet. I apologize for making your errand so doubly difficult. I seem to be my father's daughter. You merit better treatment from the royal house of Wyckoff."

"For penance I would mandate that you allow me to accompany you when you venture forth. It might be a demon or _pucca_ assuming your father's appearance. I promise not to try to overhear what he would tell you, but I would be available should this be a conjuring of evil forces. The ghost said he would allow it if I had your leave."

"Yes. It is only prudent. However, though you proclaim yourself free of my authority, this night you must follow my leading to the letter."

"In every jot and tittle I am again your most subservient slave, Your Majesty, though I will bodily hold you here until dawn unless you consent to change from those sodden clothes before we proceed again out of doors."

"Pachet, how do you suppose I managed to survive all these years without you looking after my welfare?"

"Just barely as far as I can tell."

_**Six**_

"I'd've put a wager that ye were not o' that inclination, Milord," Perry says frowning at me. "But I'll hop to and fetch it straight away."

"It is not for me, but for someone else who cannot obtain it himself," I respond with a rime of guilt on my voice.

"Didja meet a tinker travellin' on the road comin' here and think we wouldn't show him Christian charity? Ask the pauperish fellow in; on this, himself's weddin' day it's luck to entertain strangers in the great hall. Your friend might even be invited to have a taste o' the finery at the table itself. Of course, he'll pay by havin' to listen to the fat bishop mangle the story of Lazarus the beggar. Still it'll serve him better than the stuff you asked for, Milord."

"It is not like that either. I wish I could explain more, but it is not my confidence to share. I would appreciate it if you would make haste."

Perry bows to me just as Princess Marin trots into the hall having hurriedly changed into a warm gray woolen riding gown, kid gloves, and fleece-lined leather slippers. Her wistful half smile flickers when she sees me talking to Perry.

"We have to wait here a moment. I have ordered something we will be taking with us," I tell her as Perry darts down the corridor on his mission.

Her darkening mood would be perceptible even to one who does not know her as well as I do, so I hastily explain. "Perry is fetching a flask of whiskey. Last night _he _asked if I had any, and I did not. I wish to make it up to him for stabbing him as I did. Tarrying here a moment has no cost. We have hours still before he promised to appear."

"You are still the thoughtful one, Pachet. Perhaps he goaded you into being rash so you would feel guilty and provide him with drink. He was ever the canny manipulator, particularly to that end."

"That he was. But it will allow me to feel better. And to be perfectly honest with you, he is not sure he can still drink. If such were the case and he may still smell and yearn I would have a subtle yet somewhat clever revenge on him for his angering me. I have not quite forgiven him that."

Marin laughs at this and looks at me with admiration, "You have obtained some depth along with your inclination to pardon, my friend. One hopes that young Periwinkle does not bandy it about the castle that I am adopting my sire's vices."

"He has the manner of a circumspect youth. The tale that he could more likely tell is that I am planning on using the libation to soften your maidenly resolve."

This wry aside does not lead to further laughter from the princess as I expected. To the contrary she looks as if I did strike a hard blow to her spleen.

"I do not think I will require an escort after all. You may take your rest." She tries to speak lightly, but her voice has a wan and drained sound. She makes for the doorway.

I place myself in her way. "No. You go with me or not at all. It is my knightly obligation to ensure you are protected from harm." She attempts to circumvent me, but I move side to side and stay her progress.

She glares at me, "The only protection I have ever required is _from_ my knightly escorts. From your jape you have proved of no better service than your predecessor. You promised that you would respond to my reins. Is there a lie in your teeth or the agreed-to bit?"

"Marin, Princess, Majesty, I apologize if I misspoke in jest. I did not think my spooning spoof insulting. My intention was that you would share with me the irony of the allegation as such a ruse would never be essayed by me or, it is my belief, be successful with a woman of your fortitude and virtue."

"But, Pachet, your inconsiderate jest is exactly the outline of the vicious prank Stepen did play with me on the short voyage to his uncle's hall in Tintagel. Surely you have heard the tale bandied about the wardrooms of Rath Wyckoff. The bawdy details must be freshly pulled by magpies-at-arms from their tattle bags since the earl is present to smugly lend then credence."

"Since my arrival in Wyckoff I have only had concourse with the Gryphons, Xander, Perry, and your father's dogbody, Metal Pete. They did not take up the topic being more concerned with matters centering on the king's passing and the royal wedding. The only intelligence I gained of the matter was from your father. Last night he explained to me that Stepen visited his affections on you by main force, a deed that would little do him credit for which to boast."

"Stepen's actions were not in any wat affectionate, but no, I was plied with a potable pilfered from my father's own cellar. It felt only slightly naughty to sip the warming liquid to stay the cool of the ocean breezes as our bark made its way round the coast to Cornwall. I was after all a bride and so in season of celebration expecting to begin early my honeymoon. Also, I was queasy from the motion of the waves, and Stepen said the quaffing of the sweet mead would soothe my distress. He bade me to drink and drink. He had sweetened and spiced the beverage so that it tasted more like treacle than tipple. When I was roundly besotted he did lay his rough and importunate hands upon me. Before I could find clarity he was finished. When I protested his treatment, he gloated to my father's crew that he had received what I had begged him to take. The captain of the vessel did not even complete the crossing of Saint George's Channel. He turned his coracle once more for Gallimh Bay. All the voyage back the sails seemed to be filled with the sailor's scorn and ribald remarks."

"I did not know and am shocked and greatly sorry for unthinkingly trespassing passed propriety. Why did none of your house redress this base affront? How could such a vile lie live?"

"There was no hard proof to my attestation and none who would meet brawny Stepen in a trial by combat. Sean was priest, father an inebriate, and my uncle more than amused to have an impediment in succession set aside by stain of character. The nobles of the provinces saw no advantage to entering into enmity with powerful Cornwall. Father would not allow me defend myself. I had some notion that my anger and the truth would be steel enough to vanquish even much the more powerful earl. Such was the way in the stories of saints; pluck and right of the weak ever bested strong villainy, most often when chastity was involved. But father laughed, had me bound and carried to my chamber, and paid the stiff dowry penalty, peace being more important than a foolish daughter's honor. So I ate my shame and drank my dreams of vengeance. The goodly abbot, though of the order of Saintly Columba who would burn a book entire rather than allow a feminine eye to scan a page, did teach me to read Latin, first the Holy Gospels and the other Books then the scrolls of Virgil contained in his abbey. The tragedies contained therein showed me that to be sovereign is to expect adversity and duplicity. As the years passed Father began to allow me to deliver his edicts on days when he was not fully himself or, in truth, the fulsome self he wanted to be. I started slowly, but I carefully altered, amended, or created royal directives as I saw fit until, in increments, the authority of the purported author passed instead to me. Under my governance the people prospered and knew justice, and I encountered something approaching happiness. Though it was far differing from my girlhood fancies, it had the advantage of being real."

"Your Majesty, if you would command it so, I will peaceably stand aside and have you venture forth alone. As much as it likes me not, I did promise you my obedience, and I am a knight of my word. I have shown myself not worthy of providing your defense. You may have loan of my dirks as they are not too heavy for a woman's wrists, but they have proven not very effective against the haunt should it be a being of duplicity."

"I would not climb that tor without you, gentle Pachet. You spoke your quip from an innocence of your own and belief in mine. This naïveté may prove more protection than your Greek buckler and long sword. Be we settled in this matter, fast friends as always. I will try to blunt the lance of my sharp temper. I realize now that the point of it was not meant to fly in your honest direction but to another who you do not match in any aspect save gender."

"For my part I will force your bit more tightly down on my galloping tongue to quash any further raillery empty of horse sense."

We smile and graciously bow to each other.

After a few more moments Perry returns with a flask of strong wine and one of whiskey. "As ye requested, Milord, it's the dearest stuff in the cellars: a vintage from Old King Rubalt's private stock and the last of the hard grain liquor Xander brought from the Holy Land. Guard yer senses when sipping it; 'tis passing powerful. It would stun a randy leprechaun."

I take the leather bag into which he has tucked the stoppered silver bottles, "You must have the Sight, Perry, for you have divined our scheme! We hope on this sacred day to enchant one of the little folk from his hoard of treasure. Princess Marin knows of a place where they congregate." Marin winces at this as it is a very lame tale with which to cover our purpose.

"Fie, get away with yerself, Milord. Sure and I was in truth born with the caul and havin' a bit o' sport with yerself earlier. I well know ye are off to talk with late Connaught, Marcus, himself. I saw him stride up the hill with the fog to palaver with ye last night whilst I stood here in wait for ye. Tell him brazen Periwinkle Powderfoot sends him a jovial toast and a wish for a soft winter, but not an over-warm one, if you catch me meanin'."

Marin and I look guiltily at each other and at Perry.

"Don'tcha be worryin' that I can keep a secret. My flappers are tight glued when I've the mind. Also don't fret none about them peepers in the tall tower. As with last night the patrol is half cut with the slice o' toddies. They can scarce see passed the nose pieces o' their helms."

I turn to offer Marin my arm, but she has already made her eager way to the drawbridge. I canter to catch her.

"Many thanks, Perry!" I call behind me. It feels undignified, but I dare not tarry longer or lose sight of my mistress.

"Why did you agree to my coming here alone?" Marin asks while running the tip of a stalk of purple heather up and down my mailed right arm.

We are reclining in the soft long grasses on the top of the high hill. It is just after the ringing of the bells for Compline. We have been an hour in wait and must be patient three hours more until Marin's appointment at midnight. Following the afternoon's cold rain the weather has turned milder. The sky is just as clear as yestereve. How much more fair the stars look when one's own true love is at one's side! We have been sitting silently together, enjoying the sounds of the surf. I have been furiously praying for my gentle companion to address me. I was not inclined to break her revere since her humors were only recently cooled.

"I knew you would only relate the whole of your poignant reminiscences to me if you had already decided to grant me pardon and if I readily capitulated you would further relent and allow me to accompany you anyway.

She bats the bloom on my nose, "I really loathe it that you know me so well. What if you had been wrong about how I would react and been left behind with Perry?"

"I am a knight of my word, indeed and in deed. I would have watched you go and later carved out my entrails if you had met any harm."

"You would do that, slay yourself for failing me?"

"The better to hasten to serve you in the next life."

"I do not understand your pagan religion though Aunt Erindella did her best to explain it to me. If there is no hope of heaven why would a soul choose to be born?"

"For the pleasure of moments like this here with you. I doubt there is any equal in your Christian paradise."

Marin turns her face away. "I wish you would not speak so. I am only a dour, used spinster, and you use winning phrases that belong in convivial conversation with a tender, blushing maid."

"Would you mind terribly if I continue if only to keep in practice should such a damsel come along? It is easier to do so with a beauty like you than my horse."

She laughs, "I am sure that your steed would be more inclined to be so pampered. What flattery do you use on him?"

"Mostly I praise stalwart Earnest's mane; he sports the softest hair of all the chargers I have ever owned or known. His limbs aren't bad - for a horse - but it is a corker of a mane. I do also commend his courage. He lives up to his name. The ring of iron on iron and the screams of wounded men never give him a second's jitter. He stands his ground and is a fit platform for fighting."

"Have you seen much combat?"

I am stunned that she would ask such a question of me. I have never known her to show an interest in my past. "Ten years worth. I cannot number the battles if I used Saracen mathematics. It is far fewer in counting than the sum of dear comrades lost and much greater in tally than full months of peace. Charles' ambitions and obligations are likewise plentiful. The worst parts were the marching and the laying of siege as they are interludes of endless waiting. In the teeth of a charge the notion of Time deserts to the rear and the killing and staying alive is all. During those moments everything becomes keen of edge, sharp like my weapons and those of the angry foe. During such intervals I knew not happiness but a sentiment comparable to contentment."

"So you have known death. What do you think it is like?"

"This is a query better kept for your father, but to me, pagan of heart, it is but a small uncomfortable wrenching lapse between bodies as the soul in confusion floods from man to infant."

"Think it so? Since my father quit his earthy temple I have oft considered rushing after him. Unluckily for me, tutored and trusting the Catholic creed, there is an ultimate onus on self annihilation. If it were only so simple and I could lap a noxious spelative, land a crust of glass onto an anxious vein, pace a small shuffle past the edge of a tall precipice and thereby finish my unhappy history. The rest of my days seem so _empty._ Having led a state and its subjects it is harsh duty to return to the state of subjugation. Moreover, since my sire's demise and uncle's return from his district my barely companionable mother has become otherwise unavailable to me. She spends all her moments waking and abed with Xander. _And_ I must watch as the new king undoes all my careful peaceful weaving with the warp and weft of discord. He thinks that needling the province nobles to disagreement is the best way to keep secure his power in this time of transition. He sews strife by spinning yarns of long forgotten jealousies and rivalries best hemmed in. So I have no hope that there will be anything for me to accomplish save my eventual expiration. Why do you suppose that I am abjured from seeking it?"

"Perhaps you should consider your life from the perspective of another."

"How mean you?" She is _listening _to me.

"You see yourself locked away behind a wall that seems to me to be of your own making. If you were to breech this singular obstruction then your true and best destiny would appear as clearly to you as the multiple means of ending it."

"Pray, tell me what wall?"

_"Marin! _Oh, Marin! To me my child!"

At the sound of her father's voice the princess pops to her feet and rushes to the side of the hill.

"Father! Here is your daughter!" she calls in greeting.

I take her arm, "Let us retreat into the circle of standing stones. This would be the prudent plan."

"You travel hither. Hear you not his voice? No other could sound as such. It _is_ him. I must seek him out. He has not the wind to carry himself up this hill."

"If it is like last night the wind does carry him." I hang on her heels.

She places a small hand on my massive chest, "Pachet, stay! I will be safe."

"I am yours to command, but allow me to give my master his gift. He will thank you for it if he is Marcus."

"True. Come, but _now."_

We descend, she rushing, me counseling caution. "Slow, Milady. Have care. If you break your pretty neck you may swoop past him."

"How did you ever become captain, Pachet? Are the forces of Charles all so timid?"

We come to the bottom where I had previously tied my mounts. Marcus is sitting under the tree. He is stuffing the brown fallen leaves into the holes I had made.

"Good of you to accompany her, little Pachet. You may go now."

Marin bows to her father, "He thought to bring you something. Let him deliver it before we give him his leave."

Marcus plucks a dried husk from his mending and holds it to me, "He can have these leaves."

I ignore him and hold out my token of penance, "Your Late Majesty, here are flasks of beverage. Your faithful Periwinkle assures me that they are the finest available in all Ireland."

"Never could keep a secret from that rusty haired rustic. It was eerie. My thanks to the pair of you. Now you be off."

"You are early, Your Majesty," I mention as he grabs the bag from my fingers.

"Are you deaf? The bells just rang Matins," he says twisting the cork with his teeth. He drinks deeply but the liquid rushes out my punctures in his armor. He tries to stem the stream with his gloved hand. It does him no good.

"That was Compline," I tell him amused at my revenge.

"Really? Well, I suppose I could come back later."

_"No,_ Father. I am ready," Marin says glowering at me.

I climb back up the hill but, try as I might, cannot make out their excited whispers.

As I approach the standing stones I see that there is a small figure seated on the capstone of the dolmen. He wears the rich robes of green-dyed spider silk, and his curly red hair is capped by a white crown of woven peeled hawthorn branches. His mail is tortoise shell and more delicately wrought than my own.

"Greetings to ye, Sir Pachet Fortin. Is it not a fine soft night for a jaunt? 'Tis a pity you didn't bring a extra flask of that Jerusalem whiskey."

"Lord Kevin Cassidy, playful prince of the leprechauns, to what do I owe the pleasure? Why has Lugh of the Long Hand sent you abroad this Samhain? Are you not a night late in having an excursion? Is the date is not fixed and by all agreed? 'Tis not like the determination of Eastertide between the western and eastern branches of Christianity."

"We faerie folk come and go as we will. The calendar is a mortal thing as are the cycle of death and birth and time itself. Perhaps it is because we heed not the spans and dates that we have so many more of them. But to your question, I would talk to you, Frankish Knight. But first the Goddess we both serve requires that you have a lesson this evening."

"She speaks to you?" I enter the temple and stand beneath him.

"Only as She speaks to all, even in dull human ears if they will give one of their precious moments to listen."

"I stand ready to hear what She and you would tell me."

"'Tis not with words that ye will be taught but your own dear memories," he snickers. At this he pulls a impossibly vast net of seaweed from his sleeve and tosses it over my astonished face. The slick fronds stick to my cheeks and beard and frustrate any efforts to pull it loose. Finally I find purchase under a corner behind my left ear and pull the purple-green curtain free.

"Why are you playing with that icky thing? This is serious business," Marin says in a peevish voice. "The Saxon blackguards are storming our keep. See their long curved swords are drawn. We have no time for such frivolity; you must see safe the damsels in our charge whilst I go forth to do battle." The "damsels" mew and rub against my ankles. A yellow one tries to climb my leg, and his little claws dig into my calf. I look with shock at the sun just a few hours past its zenith. On the far side of the monastery the builders are still digging the foundations of the cathedral. I brush a loose limp stalk from my worn leather jerkin and take my place beside my princess/knight behind the driftwood fortifications we have stacked against the standing stones.

The Saxon invaders bray and munch the tender summer shoots of sedge. With a savage cry Marin leaps over the wall and scatters the goats with a long ash "quarterstaff" pilfered from the kitchen. It was used to hang poultry as they cured. One surly ram circles back to return the aggression, but Marin coolly stands her ground. She tucks her lithe body out of the way of his horns at the last second and clouts the ram on his tuft tailed hind quarters. The goat blinks and resumes the attack with greater ardor. This time Marin's strategy is to tamp her staff deep into the sod and brace herself against it. The goat comes to a dead stop after colliding with the pole and slumps to the ground. Marin curses and grimly puts her stung hands under her armpits. Then she pulls the staff free and solemnly declares to the stunned goat, "By Saint George, I grant you mercy."

"Well done, Milady."

Marin looks askance at me so I rephrase my praise, "Well done. Sir Maranatha." She nods and deeply bows, "Thank you my squire." I am fixed on the sight of the tops of her budding breasts. I had not marked them previously.

Rough hands seize me and toss me into the wooded battlements. If my skull had made contact with the edge of the stone uprights it might have finished me.

Dickon starts swinging two cats by their tails while Duncan kicks me playful in the kidneys and head. I struggle onto shaky legs and see Marin dash to stop the carnage. Duncan hoots as his brother tosses a kitten to the edge of the cliffs facing the sea. My magnificent small princess bravely swings the pole into tall Dickon's shoulder. He sighs, rips it from her hands, and uses it to further harry the cats. She pounds on his shoulder with her tiny fists. He laughs and continues to torment her pets.

"Why will you not fight me!" she screams in frustration.

"Fie, you be a frail demoiselle, and coddled princess too. Simper off to your sire; he may punish our sport. Then again 'tis long after noon; he may not have the sense to answer ye having paddled away in his cups and on the morrow we will be rejoining our lord Xander at Conmaicne-Mara."

I finally gain enough equilibrium to join the melee. Duncan lifts me up by my shirt front and slams his fist into my chin.

I see a skyful of stars when Kevin peels the seaweed from my face. "Why did ye walk about after I covered ye? If you'd have stayed still you wouldn't slammed your chin into the stone pillar. How was your sojourn into Tir nan n'og, the Land of the Forever Young?"

I wiggle my throbbing chin and marvel, "I remember that afternoon! Marin had been brought back from fosterage to be companion to her mother some scant months after Xander was made petty king of Conmaicne-Mara. I think the king finally suspected carnality-in-law and banished his brother from his bed to the provinces. I lost my free afternoons of study with Erindella as Marin insisted that I be her squire and playmate during her dame's customary midday nap, which the queen continued in order to maintain the previous ruse. What lesson is there for me from this vignette?"

"How loved ye the princess back then?"

"Not at all before that day. I resented being so used by a young girl."

"Hymph!"

"That was Erindella's favorite expression, and I always found it _very_ annoying. Why does my tutor not venture forth from the land beyond to give _me_ counsel? Or better question still: why have I not been blessed with a moment's chat with _my_ father. I longed as hard as Marin for such over the terrible years of enslavement and battle. It is a Christian thing this ghostly visiting? I do not recall any mention of it in the codices I have read while serving Charles."

"Perhaps it is not so much of a blessing as it is a curse. Ho, I do hear the princess returning from her interview with her sire. I must be off."

"But I have not puzzled through my lesson!"

"You wasted our time together complaining. It is the way of mortals, grousing about the instruction when they should be paying it more mind. It will come to ye anon if you are patient." He dissolves into still more seaweed which slithers down on my head.

"Pachet, what odd amusement do you play at using those slimy leaves?"

I have no answer for her. It is then as she is plucking the tendrils from my shoulders with the tips of her fingers that I note how altered is her face. She is full as lovely as ever I marked her, but she is not the untroubled maid I gamboled with in youth or the proud, anxious young woman who left Wyckoff with Stepen. As sure I am of her character, manner, and preferences I have yet to learn the barest inkling of her spirit entire. This lesson strikes me more solidly than a varlet's blow to the chin. A second similar smiting occurs with the thrilling realization that she, in turn, knows not me. I decide at that moment to appeal to my dread lord Charles for a continuance to my furlough from his battle camp. Surely there is some use to which Xander may put my arm and arms in County Gallimh.

"Pachet, my father confirmed what I have did long suspect. My mother and Xander contrived to meet often over the years. While my father still lived she allowed my uncle a share in the body that God gave to my father in sacred rite. Father now knows that the separation did most likely fuel the passions and kept the desire for abomination fresh between them. Finally they would brook his impediment no more. While noble Marcus dozed in his garden into my sire's ear visiting Xander did pour a contagion that immediately turned the blood to crusty cold crimson frost in his veins. My father was murdered! Marcus told me that his drink poisoned body would not have carried him through the end of the year, and that I should let this affront rest with him. Father would have me forgive them both their foul crimes. He bade me to discontinue dusting Xander's victuals with the slow venom and so spare my soul. He says I must give them both the chance to find repentance and atonement on their own. This charge is a yoke most unwelcome and harsh. I would sooner borrow your dirks and pin their unfaithful hearts together in the bridal bower. How will I stay my hand when next I see them? They are hidden behind thick stone walls from my sight, and my heart cries loud for swift vengeance!"

"The morrow will be additionally difficult for you as the bishop has offered to remind you of your duties as daughter and subject on pain of the lash."

"I should have expected that. That prelate has two loves, the feast and the ferule. Why do you not speak further, Pachet? By now I would have expected you to offer me unwelcome aid in some fashion."

"I know you, Sir Maranatha. You have the strength within you to wage your own battles, even the nigh impossible ones with yourself. I might suggest you change your clothes again. You smell like a distillery. Feel free to disregard the advice, though."

Her stunning hazel eyes find mine. My understanding her has perhaps given her the key to noticing me. "It was from clutching the leaking bosom of my father. He wept like a babe when none of the drink settled in. You had your sly recompense. Perhaps I should use your methods instead of my own. It seems to me that I need not wait idly by until Xander and Gallina do find their way to repentance. I may by some means enact a stratagem whereas their conscience finds them. I require some shield should my scalding temper out. I know! I will counterfeit the predilections of my sire and act the drunkard. This will explain my disrespectful behavior past and future. If I am now back in concert with God, He will direct me to accomplishing His Ends. Only you and Perry who will serve me weaken beverage will know the truth. I know you will not betray me."

"In that you may be assured."

She takes my arm and starts down the hill slowly. "Let us then drink to our mission. I wonder if there is anymore of the aged wine? It did smell delicious."


End file.
